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To Serve & ProtectA Collection Of Memories

© 2006, Missouri State Highway Patrol,Public Information and Education Division

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CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION Pg. 4

1980 INTERVIEWS: Pgs. 5-88

Matilda “Tillie” Sonnen (1931-1971) 6-15George B. Kahler (1931-1965) 16-25Thomas E. “Tom” Whitecotton (1931-1965) 26-33Herbert D. “Herb” Brigham (1932-1961) 34-43Glenn W. Lampley (1935-1970) 44-47Roy F. “Pappy” Dix (1937-1961) 48-56Herbert F. “Herb” Wickham (1937-1966) 57-62Robert E. “Nookie” Lee III (1943-1976) 63-69Herbert “Herb”Walker (1943-1972) 70-76Herbert H. “Herb” Lee (1950-1973) 77-87

2005 INTERVIEWS: Pgs. 89-161

Harry W. Duncan (1937-1973) 90-95Thomas W. “Tom” Pasley (1939-1972) 96-103Walter E. Wilson (1942-1969) 104-110James D. “Doc” Harris (1948-1982) 111-112Paul V. Volkmer (1949-1987) 113-119Ralph M. Rider (1949-1979) 120-129Donald E. “Don” Selvey (1953-1989) 130-134Ronald A. “Ron” Selvey (1953-1989) 135-141Robert J. “Bob” Hagan (1958-1992) 142-146Maurice B. “Rip” Russell (1958-1988) 147-152Charles F. “Frank” Durham (1962-1996) 153-156Dale P. Shikles (1970-2006) 157-161

(The years in parentheses refer to employment dates.)

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INTRODUCTION

To commemorate the Patrol’s 50th anniversary in 1981, Sgt.Charles E. Walker created a book entitled, “Trooper”, a compilation of10 interviews with Patrol retirees. Twenty-five years later, theseinterviews have become part of our treasured history. The Patrol owesSgt. Walker (who is now retired and resides in Jefferson City,Missouri) a debt of gratitude for preserving the memories of thesepioneers.

It is now 2006, and the Patrol is celebrating its 75th anniversary. Tocommemorate the occasion, the Public Information and EducationDivision is printing a book called “To Serve & Protect”. In this edition,you’ll find the original interviews by Sgt. Walker, and 12 recentinterviews by Public Information Specialist III Cheryl D. Cobb, Q/PIED.

As Sgt. Walker said in the preface of “Trooper”: For those of youwhose long-time friends are featured in these pages, we hope yourreading brings back fond memories. For those of you who are meetingthese Patrol employees for the first time, we trust the experience is apleasant one.

Sincerely,

Captain Christian T. RicksQ/PIED

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INTERVIEWS

1980

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With a career that spanned four de-cades and part of a fifth, Tillie Sonnenowns the distinction of having the longestworking career of any Highway Patrol em-ployee: 40 years. She was there at thePatrol’s modest beginning and witnessedthe growth of the department to a force ofover 700 officers. Always a dedicated em-ployee, Tillie exhibits a ready humor andzest for life, undiminished by the passageof time.

“If they like you, they’ll hire you perma-nently. If they don’t, you’re gone, no ques-tions asked.”

That’s what I was told before takingtemporary employment at the MissouriHighway Department Headquarters herein Jefferson City. It was February of 1931,and I was glad to find a job, even if it wasonly for a few weeks, because the hatch-ery where I’d worked for seven and a halfyears had closed, leaving me unem-ployed. I started in the secretarial pool,working beside my roommate, HildaHutchinson, who still lives with me today.When one of the divisions needed a typ-ist, they’d call down and we’d work for onefellow until a particular project was com-pleted, then be assigned to someoneelse. Hilda had started working there inSeptember of 1930, and was soon as-signed a permanent job in one of the divi-sions, but I remained in the pool. Though Ididn’t know at the time, this was the bestplace I could have been, for it led directlyto my career with the Patrol.

Governor Caufield signed the bill creat-ing the Highway Patrol on April 24, andsoon thereafter named his secretary—

MATILDA “TILLIE” SONNEN

Lewis Ellis, of Bethany,—as the first su-perintendent. The bill became effective onSeptember 14, so there was a great dealof work to be done in a short time. Appli-cations had to be printed, sent out, andscreened when they came back; appli-cants had to be tested, and the very struc-ture of the Patrol had to be planned — allin the space of a few months.

One day in July, Moe Dribben, the per-sonnel manager for the Highway Depart-ment, two other secretaries, and I —principally because I had no permanentassignment — were sent over to thegovernor’s office to help process lettersfrom prospective applicants for the Patrol.

Matilda “Tillie” Sonnen

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We found a filing cabinet filled with over5,000 letters requesting applications; theywere in no particular order, just pitched inas they arrived in the mail. The four of ussorted them by county, weeded out thosewho were too young, too old, ineligible forsome other reason, and sent out applica-tions. In the meantime, the two secretar-ies returned to the Highway Department,leaving Moe and I to study the applica-tions when they arrived. After screeningout more men who didn’t qualify, we setup an examination schedule according tosenatorial districts and notified candidateswhen to appear for their tests. While wehandled the applications, SuperintendentEllis, his assistant, Major Lewis Means(actually a captain, but called “major” fromhis military rank), and the legal counsel ofthe Highway Department, Marvin Krause,toured several states, investigating theirstate police organizations for ideas onhow to organize the Missouri Patrol and tolook at their uniforms, cars, and otherequipment. Our organization was pat-

terned mostly after the New Jer-sey State Police, but they alsovisited Pennsylvania, New York,and Michigan.

Although the Patrol Actcalled for a force of 125 officers,lowered appropriations reducedthe number to 55, of which sixwere captains and 49 weretroopers. Besides Means, twoother men were named captainsbefore recruit training began:Louis Eslick and AlbertSheppard, both of whom helpedin the selection process. Theother three were named later:Thomas Leigh, when he begantraining, and William Baxter andSchuyler French at the end oftraining.

During the English examina-tion for Patrol candidates, I re-

member checking one fellow’s that read, “Iarrived at the axident scene at 10 p.m.” Ishowed it to Sheppard.

“Reads okay to me, Tillie,” he chuckled.“He wrote it like it sounded.”

From July to September we workedfrom 8 a.m. until 6 or 7 p.m. There was somuch to do, and we were anxious to haveeverything ready by the 14th. One of thegirls working with us complained. “I’ve hadit!” she said. “I was hired to work eight tofive and I’m not going to work any morelong hours!” Well, I thought, you haven’tbeen out of work for awhile like I have.Heck, I was just glad to have a job.

September passed, then October, andMoe Dribben and I were still “temporarily”assigned to the Patrol. “You can stay onhere, I’ll bet,” said Dribben. “They’ll needa secretary and you’ve been with themfrom the first. I’ll be going back beforelong, but something tells me they’ll keepyou if you want to stay.” But as November

Trooper J.D. Ellis is shown working in the fingerprintroom at General Headquarters.

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began and the graduation date for the firstclass of recruits approached, I hadn’theard anything definite.

Colonel Ellis invited me to ride with himto the graduation ceremonies in St. Louis.On the way down he said, “Miss Sonnen, Idon’t know whether anyone has told youor not, but I’ve asked that you be trans-ferred to the Patrol permanently. I hopeyou like it.”

Like it? Why, I was thrilled to death! Itwas a new organization, the first statewidepolice organization in the history of thestate. I can’t describe how exciting it wasto be there at the beginning, just beingpart of it, seeing it grow and develop,meeting and working with the officers,sharing their experiences.

General Headquarters and Headquar-ters Troop (now Troop F) occupied tworooms in the Capitol building when westarted. I worked for both the troop andGHQ. Colonel Ellis’s secretary, RoseBender, and I were the only stenogra-phers, but we were all they needed, be-cause Headquarters Troop consisted ofjust eight officers: Major Means, Ser-geants Lewis Howard and Ben Booth

(seven sergeants had been named state-wide in addition to the six captains), andTroopers Harry Hansen, Ray Cushman,Jim McCann, Paul Burge, and GilbertFowler.

I’ll never forget the morning the first re-ports arrived from the field. As stenogra-pher, I was supposed to type up thesummaries, but Sergeant Howard was soexcited and curious, that he grabbed thereports and typed them himself. I kiddedhim about it later on. “Boy, you’re not asanxious to total up those reports as youwere the first day,” I said.

You can understand our enthusiasm,though. We had no idea what the reportswould be like, what adventures the offic-ers would encounter. Some of them werefunny. I still have a service rendered slipdated February 20, 1932, and signed byMeans and Howard that reads, “Removedvery dangerous piece of auto casing fromthe road. Then slowed down to avoid hit-ting hens (very valuable service). No deadcats in sight and couldn’t find any to killand place on the highway to remove.”

They were only partially kidding aboutthe cats. Some of the men sharpened

The 1st Recruit Class prepares for graduation, 1931.

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their shooting eyes by controlling the straycat population in rural areas.

My salary with the Patrol was $115 amonth, which was almost as much as theofficers earned, at $125. When the menreceived their first raise, I typed the lettersnotifying them. Without thinking I blurtedout, “Well, gosh, what do us secretariesget out of it?” The next morning Rose andI found two-pound boxes of candy on ourdesks, with notes from Colonel Ellis: “Forgood work, well done.” He’d overheardme.

Lewis Ellis was a fine choice for thefirst superintendent. He was intelligent, agood speaker and writer (he had a news-paper background), even-tempered, firmbut fair, a friendly person and easy towork for. He was young, about 32 at thetime of his appointment, but a very ablesuperintendent.

When this ticket-fixing scandal in TroopC hit the news recently, people said, “My,what a shame. Something like this hasnever happened before to the HighwayPatrol.” But it has. Only six months afterthe organization was formed, the first of-ficer was terminated, not for ticket-fixing,

but for taking a bribe. The officer laterwrote Ellis a letter apologizing for betray-ing the trust placed in him, but the termi-nation stood. This first incident happenedin February of 1932, and it wasn’t long be-fore another officer was accused of mis-conduct: drinking in uniform. The Patrolheld a hearing, found him guilty, and firedhim, too.

These events were the exception,never the rule. Most of the officers werehonest, hardworking, and dedicated totheir jobs. There’s no question in my mindthat the efficiency, dependability, andhelpfulness demonstrated by the firsttroopers saved the Patrol, for there werethose who would have abolished it. Thebill creating the organization was defeatedseveral times before passage in 1931,and other pieces of legislation were intro-duced in following years to disband thePatrol. Colonel Ellis emphasized that offic-ers were to help people whenever theycould, and by following his philosophy,they won the respect and friendship ofthousands of Missouri citizens.

Speaking of hard work, I received a let-ter from Ray Cushman recently in whichhe mentioned that at the beginning theyrarely took a leave day. They were afraidto, because in those Depression-riddenyears, thousands were line up for theirjobs.

When the first class graduated, eachman was given a choice of driving a car ora motorcycle, and Cushman chose acycle. “Cush,” I asked him one time, “whydid you choose the motorcycle?”

“Tillie,” he replied, remembering coldrides and countless spills, “I’ll be durned ifI know.”

Cushman and Jim McCann were theonly single troopers in the area and theycut quite a swath through the single girlsaround Jefferson City. A few days beforeChristmas in 1932, they came in the officewith six or eight boxes of candy. “Tillie,

Colonel E.I. “Mike” Hockaday sits athis desk.

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would you wrap these for us?” they said. Iloved to wrap packages, and when I fin-ished, they asked, “Which one’s the pretti-est?” I examined them and picked one.“That’s for you,” they said.

They took the others, tagged them“Merry Christmas from Cush andMcCann”, and gave them to their girl-friends, most of whom they’d both dated.Can you imagine two guys giving jointgifts to the same girls? Well, that’s whatthey did.

McCann later confined his affection totwo girls, one from Jefferson City, and theother from Hannibal. “Tillie, I got a toughjob to do,” he said one morning.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve got to tell this gal here in Jeff thatI’m going to marry the one in Hannibal.This is sure going to be rough.”

I don’t know who it was roughest on,the girl or McCann, but he did wind upmarrying the one from Hannibal.

Lewis Ellis was superintendent untilMay of 1933 when newly elected Gover-nor Guy Park replaced him with B. MarvinCasteel. Casteel was a good superinten-dent, but I always thought it was too badEllis served so short a time. He was agreat planner and I’m sure he had dreamsof making the Patrol even better, but itwasn’t to be.

With the administration changing, all ofus civilians expected to be terminated, aswas the custom then. The first to go wasthe janitor. “We’re next,” promised RoseBender. It was terrible, sitting there at yourdesk, wondering when they’d call you inand tell you your services were no longerneeded. In early June, Rose was replacedby a girl sent in by the governor’s office.It’s only a matter of time, I told myself.

On Monday, morning, the twelfth ofJune, Colonel Casteel walked in the officewith a lady wearing a gray suit and cape.

She was short and very attractive. My re-placement, no doubt.

Casteel and the girl went into his office.A few minutes later, the buzzer sounded.Tillie, you’re gone, it seemed to say. But,he didn’t want me; he wanted his newsecretary, Mrs. Watts. I sat there on theedge of my seat until the three of themcame out a few minutes later. “MissSonnen,” said Casteel, “I’d like you tomeet my wife,” indicating the girl in gray.Was I surprised!

When the colonel and his wife hadgone, I confided to the secretary that I’dthought Mrs. Casteel was there to take myjob. When she stopped laughing, shesaid, “I’ve got to tell the colonel about that.Do you mind?”

“No, of course not,” I said.

Mrs. Casteel laughed about it the nextday. “Boy, I didn’t think it showed that Iwanted a job that bad,” she said. (Theyhad five children and the colonel’s salarybarely enabled them to live comfortably.)

On Wednesday, the fourteenth, Ser-geant Ben Booth and Sheriff Roger Wil-son of Boone County were shot and killedat a roadblock north of Columbia. Boothwas the first Missouri trooper to lose hislife in the performance of his duty. ColonelCasteel was forced to remain in the troopheadquarters most of the day to coordi-nate the manhunt, but everyone else wasout searching for the killers. Five o’clockcame and Mrs. Watts went home, but Istayed to help any way I could. I guess Ididn’t go home until after 11 o’clock thatnight, and I was back at my desk early thefollowing morning. The search continuedfor two years, finally resulting in the cap-ture of George McKeever, who killedBooth, and Francis McNeily, who shotSheriff Wilson.

A few days after the murder of Boothand Wilson, Colonel Casteel called meinto his office. “Miss Sonnen, I don’t want

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you to worry anymore about your job.You’ll stay as long as I will.”

Boy, that made me feel good. Then, afew months later I had cause for doubt.Talk was that a girl had been selected toreplace me by the governor’s office. Ha, Ithought, that reassurance I got awhileback was just a politician talking. Onemorning, a call came to our office for theother girl. I told them, “Sorry, she doesn’twork here,” (But, she soon will and Tilliewon’t, I added, under my breath). I hadmisjudged Casteel, for he went to bat forme, telling them I’d been there at the be-ginning, knew the job, and that if dis-charged, I’d just go back to the HighwayDepartment. For once, the administrationgave in and let me stay.

It’s hard to believe, but General Head-quarters moved 11 times before finally be-ing housed in a Highway Patrol building.When the legislature convened in 1933,we moved from the Capitol building to thetop floor of a big house near MadisonStreet and Capitol Avenue, where the mu-nicipal garage is today. At the conclusionof the legislative session it was back tothe Capitol. In 1935, we were in the

Church Building across the street from thehouse, and in 1937, we were quartered inthe building next to the Missouri Hotel onHigh Street.

Trooper J.D. Ellis worked in the finger-print section next door to the typists’ roomin the Capitol. One day I was typing alongwhen I heard a Pop! from the direction ofEllis’ office. I didn’t think too much aboutit, thinking he might have dropped some-thing, or that it might have been a carbackfiring outside. Suddenly the doorburst open and Ellis came running in witha dazed expression on his face.

“What’s the matter, Ellis?” I said.

“I—I—pulled the trigger,” he stam-mered.

We investigated and found that he’dfired a round into the wall between the of-fices while cleaning his pistol. Somebodypasted a bull’s-eye target over the holeand it hung there for years afterwardabove the filing cabinets.

Ellis entered the service in World War IIand died in a concentration camp in

Trooper J.G. McCann, 1931.Trooper Arthur R. “Ray”Cushman, 1931.

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Japan. He was a nice fellow, but probablynever would have been hired today, be-cause he walked with a slight limp. Duringthe war several men were hired with par-tial disabilities.

In 1939, we left the Capitol forever andwere given the ground floor of the Broad-way State Office Building, which weshared with other state departments. Inlater years, we occupied larger sections ofthe building as we gained employees.

Eleven moves of desks, chairs, files,and supplies — no telling how many pairsof scissors we lost! Captain Bob Mooreexpressed his disapproval of our quartersin the Broadway Building to ColonelCasteel, saying we needed more room.“Oh, forget it,” said the colonel. “We canget along fine now. By the time we needmore space we’ll have our own building.”Little did he realize that it would be 1963before his prediction came true, 24 yearslater.

Inmates of the penitentiary always didthe moving. At the Broadway Building,one of them wasn’t working fast enough tosuit Captain Moore. “You there, hurry up,and get going, and move that furniture,”he ordered.

The inmate eyed him and said, “Listen,mister, I’ve got 99 years to do this, and I’min no hurry to get finished.”

One of the most impressive officers onthe force in the ‘30s and early ‘40s wasBob Moore, who joined the Patrol in 1931and left in 1946. His memory was phe-nomenal. He’d read a book and recitepassages verbatim. Moore started theIdentification Bureau and also organizedand commanded the Safety Squadron, agroup of officers who traveled the state onmotorcycles, promoting safety throughconcentrated enforcement and public pro-grams. In fact, Moore originated a lotmore ideas than he ever received creditfor. He’d drop a suggestion on his supervi-sors and before long there would be an

order starting a new program or proce-dure. Moore didn’t care as long as thingsgot done.

We had only one bathroom in that oldhouse at Madison and Capitol, a bother-some situation at times, especially whensomeone would go in, sit down, and startreading a book. Bob Moore was one ofthe worst offenders. People would belined up outside while Moore read inside.Finally, somebody would holler, “Hey,Moore! You’re wanted on the telephone!”It was the only way to get him out.

About 1933, we were giving examina-tions to Patrol applicants when I got intothe middle of a feud between two cap-tains. Each was conducting a differenttest. The first one handed me about ahundred physical exams saying, “Here,you hold on to these for me. I’ve got toleave for awhile, but I’d like to go overthem again when I return.”

As soon as the first captain was gone,the second walked over to my desk.“Those papers belong to me. Give themhere,” he ordered. Here was one guy try-ing to spite the other, and me in between.

“Okay,” I said, “take your durned oldpapers.”

Bob Moore saw the whole thing andthought it was funny. “Don’t get hot, Tillie,”he said. “Don’t get hot.”

A few minutes later the first captaincame back in the room. “I’d like to havethose exams, please,” he said.

“I haven’t got them,” I said.

He knew exactly where they were andleft to hash it out with the other fellow.

After I cooled down, I began thinkingthat if word of how I’d talked to that officerreached Casteel, he might not approve. Iwas starting to worry when Major Meanscame up and said, “Colonel Casteel wantsto see you.”

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My heart skipped a beat. “Did you tellhim what happened?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

I was shaking as I approached thecolonel’s office. I just knew he was goingto say, “Listen, if you’re going to talk to acaptain like you just did, we can’t haveyou around.”

When I walked in, Casteel said, “MissSonnen, what’s your salary?” Oh, no, I’mgetting a pay cut, I thought.

“A hundred fifteen a month.” I managedto say.

“Okay, beginning the first if the month,it’ll be $125,” he said.

I was flabbergasted. I don’t rememberthanking him or saying anything. I justturned around and walked out fast beforehe changed his mind.

The World’s Fair was held in Chicagoin 1933, and several of our men served ona detail there. I went up and enjoyed thesights. I came back with Trooper HarryHansen, his wife, Martha, and Trooper

Charlie Newman, who was driving. Harrysat in front with Charlie, and Martha and Iwere in the back. That was a wild ride, letme tell you. Newman was taking thecurves so fast that steamer trunks stackedin the seat slid over and mashed us.Then, he’d swing into a curve the otherway and the trunks would slide back off ofus. We were screaming around a turnsomewhere in Illinois when we began go-ing in circles. When we stopped, we wereheading back toward Chicago! PoorMartha began crying and begging Charlieto slow down, but he never did. We leftChicago at 11:30 p.m. and pulled into Jef-ferson City at 7:45 the next morning, withmany coffee stops en route. Not a fast tripby today’s standards, but in 1933, roadsweren’t so good. What an experience!

Major Lewis Means was known for be-ing close with his money, but there wasone officer who was considered eventighter: Melvin Dace of Troop E. The fel-lows used to tell about Dace going into arestaurant in Chicago during the World’sFair and ordering pie and coffee.

“Would you like cream on your pie?”asked the waitress.

Captain Robert E.Moore sets upminiaturemotorcycles. Capt.Moore was in chargeof the SafetySquadron.

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“Does it cost any more?” said Dace. “Ifit does, I don’t want it.”

In 1939, Colonel Casteel left the Patrolfor a job with the WPA. Mrs. Watts, hissecretary, went with him, and I becamesecretary for the acting superintendent,A.D. Sheppard. Following Sheppard cameRamsey, Ginn, Wallis, Waggoner,Harrison, Waggoner again, andHockaday. Except for the last two superin-tendents, Sam Smith and Al Lubker, I’veworked for every one the Patrol has had.

I came close to quitting once under M.Stanley Ginn, who served from 1941 to1944. I got a call one weekend from theoffice to come over and take dictation.This wasn’t unusual, as I’d sometimescome in on Saturday or Sunday when abig investigation was under way. I startedover to my desk to pick up my notebookand pencils when one of the sergeantssaid, “Tillie, your desk was moved.”

“It was?” I said in surprise.

“Yeah, they moved it out of the front of-fice. A new girl’s been hired as thesuperintendent’s secretary.”

It was all right with me if he wanted tohire someone new (she was a cute littlething), but at least he could have saidsomething before he moved me from oneoffice to another.

“OK,” I said. I was burning. I went inand told Ginn, “I’ve never felt any morelike quitting than I do right now.”

Mike Hockaday, then a sergeant, said,“Now, Tillie, don’t quit. Just sit tight and letthings ride.”

I was still mad, though, and if I hadn’tbeen taking care of my mother at the time,I’d have told Ginn what he could havedone with the job, but I stuck around. Asthings turned out, it was the right decision.

The new girl resigned very soon after-ward; then they brought in another onewho couldn’t spell, and I wound up doingall her work. When she took dictation, I’dhave to sit in to make sure nothing wasleft out! Ginn finally left for the service in1944.

Ginn got off on the wrong foot with mein the beginning. After his appointment tosuperintendent in November of 1941, hebrought me a stack of letters of congratu-lation — over 400 of them — from friendsand well wishers.

“Here. Answer these,” he said. “You’llhave to pick out my fishing buddies andattorney friends. They get special letters.”

Well, I didn’t know him or them and Iwas overwhelmed at the task before me.Most of the letters made no direct refer-ence to the writer’s occupation or relation-ship to Ginn, so how was I to proceed? Iwound up reading all of them and guess-ing by what was said in the letter to whichcategory the person belonged: social,business, and so on. That was a job.

When Trooper Hugh Waggoner wasappointed superintendent in 1945, youmight say it was a surprise to most of us.Why, I’d hardly heard of him; he wasn’tthe sort of fellow that attracted attention.Waggoner’s first question when he movedinto his new office was, “How do I answerthe telephone?”

He didn’t know whether to say, “Gen-eral Headquarters”, “Highway Patrol”,“Hello”, or what. His first term as a super-intendent was largely a learning experi-ence. Luckily, K.K. Johnson and MikeHockaday had been there for years andknew the ins and outs of running the orga-nization. When Waggoner returned for hissecond hitch as Patrol head, though, he’dgotten it together. His interim job with theNational Safety Council had taught him alot about administration, I guess.

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I was Colonel Mike Hockaday’s secre-tary for six years following HughWaggoner’s death in 1965. ColonelHockaday is retired now, too, but he is stillactive in community affairs (The SalvationArmy, State Retirees’ Association, Memo-rial Hospital Auxiliary). He just can’t sayno. My first memory of Colonel Hockadayis of his coming into GHQ to talk to J.D.Ellis and learn how to read fingerprints. Itwas 1937, and he was a Patrol applicant.We were always interested in the fellowswho were applying.

“You just wait,” one of the officers said.“That Hockaday fellow will be in beforelong.”

I can still see him, wearing a white,stiff-brimmed hat, and smiling at every-one.

I’ve been secretary of the Patrol Retir-ees’ Association since 1972. It’s not terri-bly difficult, but it does involve some time.I told them recently I thought someoneelse should have a chance at the job.When retired Lieutenant Fenimore, thechairman of the nominating committeeheard that, he said, “Oh, hell, she can’tquit.”

The job has kept me in touch withpeople and this is important. I don’t knowhow anybody could work for an organiza-tion most of his adult life and then justwalk out the door and forget about it.Looking back to 1931, I remember howclose everyone on the Patrol was, like afamily. Of course, there were fewer of usand the organization had to grow to keeppace with the times, but when it grewlarger, some of that closeness was lost. Itwas inevitable, I suppose.

I visit GHQ often and everyone is sowonderful to me. I know some must won-der, “What’s that old woman doing outhere?” But, I still feel that I’m a part of thePatrol and that I always will be. I’m just

grateful for the opportunities I’ve had toknow such fine people.

(Editor’s Note: This interview took place in1980. Ms. Tillie Sonnen died on July 7,1996.)

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George Kahler was a member of theoriginal class of the Highway Patrol in1931, and remained with the force until1965, when he retired with the rank oflieutenant. He and his wife now reside inSpringfield most of the year, but winter inFlorida with their son and daughter. WithTom Whitecotton, whose story follows thisone, George shares the distinction of hav-ing shot it out with Bonnie and Clyde inthe early 1930s, the heyday of the gang-ster.

Back in 1931, I was living in Crane andworking for Tidewater Oil Company as aservice station manager. I was happythere and earning a fair salary for thetimes about $90 to $100 a month with sal-ary and commissions. Then the companyput us on a commission basis only. Thisreduced my wage to about $80, but Ididn’t worry too much, as I knew I had agood chance of a promotion soon. Theman who was my immediate supervisorwas scheduled to move up and I wasslated for his spot. But, Tidewater insistedon his taking the promotion at the samesalary as his present one, so he refused,effectively barring my advancement.

I was inventorying the stock one after-noon, anticipating my date in Joplin thatnight. I was going with my future wife. Afriend dropped by and I guess I seemedtoo rushed to talk.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” heasked.

I told him about the date.

“Gee, I’ve got a girl in Joplin too,” hesaid.

GEORGE B. KAHLER

“Well, go change your clothes andcome along.”

Joplin is about 70 miles from Crane. Allthe way over and back he talked abouthow he’d applied for the Missouri HighwayPatrol, which was just coming into beingthen. He had applied for a captaincy—youapplied for a specific rank in the first classof troopers.

“I don’t know what it pays, but it’sbound to be more than you’re makingnow,” he told me. “I’m sure I’m going to behired, and I’ll do what I can to get you aspot.”

I wasn’t interested. I thought I’d justhang on with Tidewater and see if someopportunity didn’t pop up soon.

Trooper George B. Kahler

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We arrived back in Crane at about thetime for me to report for work. Later thatmorning my friend showed up with an ap-plication from the Patrol. “Fill it out,” he in-sisted. “It won’t hurt to try. But be sure andsend it in right away. They’re going to se-lect people for the class.”

“It’ll do no good,” I thought. “They’vealready processed over 5,000 applicantsand probably picked the persons theywant. But, what the heck, I’ll send it in tosee what happens.”

Three days later, I received a notice togo to Jefferson City for the entrance ex-amination. Four or five days after that atelegram arrived telling me I’d been se-lected. After considering my situation, Iaccepted the appointment. The Patrol didpay a little more; we started at about $115a month. Ironically my friend—who wassure of a captaincy and was going to putin a good word for me—wasn’t selected.

Recruit training was held at the St.Louis Police Academy. It began on Octo-ber 5, 1931, and lasted about six weeks.Everyone in the class had to learn to ridea motorcycle. Why, I couldn’t even ride abicycle, still can’t. Our driving course wasForest Park, quite an experience, I assureyou. To cap it off, they assigned me to ridea ‘cycle on the road. I kept the thing fortwo years. Then, to my relief, was as-signed a car.

I’ll never forget the day we completedtraining. We were ordered to ride our mo-tors to the Harley-Davidson shop for a fi-nal checkup before starting home. I wascoming out of Forest Park, approachingan intersection where five streets met.The light turned red ahead of me. Icouldn’t remember how to stop thatdarned motorcycle. I fumbled around andsomehow hit the button that activated thetwo red warning lights. The traffic openedup and let me slide right through. It took

me two blocks to get that machinestopped.

I intended to ride all the way to Spring-field that night, but I ran into a rainstormand was forced to rent a room in St.James. It was still dark when I left forhome the next morning. I came around acurve on old Highway 66 at the LittlePiney River bridge and barely touched myhandbrake to slow the cycle. I was travel-ing only about 20 mph, but the brakelocked and upset me.

I flew off toward the guardrail. I tried toturn my body, so I’d go underneath, but ithit me right between the shoulders. I waswearing my uniform, topcoat, and rain-coat, with my gun and holster pulled up sothey rode in my lap. The extra clothingprobably protected me from serious injury.The motorcycle was undamaged. I wasshaken, but able to continue on to Spring-field.

I was assigned to work out of Joplin,the headquarters for Troop D then. Ouroffice was in the Highway Departmentbuilding, and there were only three patrol-men stationed in the town, the troop ser-geant, John Soraghan; Harve Sayers; andI. Superintendent Ellis decided to give themarried officers a furlough for the Christ-mas holidays. Being single, I was as-signed temporarily to Troop C in Kirkwoodto replace one of the married men. I pa-trolled in his Model A Ford roadster, apleasant change from the motorcycle.

My first day in Kirkwood, I woke up inpain. I went on in to troop headquarters,where Captain Leigh noticed I was experi-encing some discomfort.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I’ve got a heck of a pain in my side,” Isaid.

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He sent me to the doctor. “Have youbeen in an accident recently?” he in-quired.

“No ... wait a minute. Yeah, I did have alittle motorcycle accident about six weeksago.”

“Well the tops of four of your ribs arebroken off,” he said. “I’ll tape you up, and Ithink you’ll be all right.”

I recall another incident that occurred ayear or so later. My wife and I had beenmarried only a short time. There was amovie playing in town that we wanted tosee, and I’d promised her that we’d gothat night. I usually worked an afternoon-evening shift, but had attend court in themorning, so all I intended to do was makea run north on U.S. 71 to Lamar and backand call it a day. “I’ll be in by seveno’clock,” I promised my wife as I left thehouse.

I was going along on my motorcycle afew miles north of Carthage about 11o’clock when I met Trooper CharlieNewman, who was stationed at Nevada.He was flying down the road as fast asthat Model A would travel. He stuck outhis arm and motioned for me to turnaround and follow.

“The office called,” said Newman.“There’s been a burglary at Roaring River.Park your motor and we’ll head downthere.”

I left my machine at the Chevrolet ga-rage in Carthage. On the way he gave mewhat details he knew. The burglars hadfled in a car, but had abandoned it andevidently were afoot in the timber.

We met Captain Eslick at the scenewhere the fellows had abandoned the get-away car. After a short parley, it was de-cided to station me on a hilltop where two

animal trails intersected. They thoughtmaybe the burglars might try to use thoseto get through the woods. This hill was re-ally in a remote area; in fact they had toemploy a local resident just to find it.

“You stay here and watch for ‘em,” saidCaptain, “and we’ll be back for you in alittle while.”

I was soon to learn exactly what “a littlewhile” really meant.

My vigil began about two o’clock. Istood and surveyed the area for a timeand listened for any sign of intruders, butdidn’t see or hear anything. About fiveo’clock, my stomach reminded me I hadn’thad any lunch. Dusk fell and still no onecame to relieve me. I had to have some-thing to eat.

Luckily, it was the fall of the year, andthe chinquapin oak acorns were ripe. Ifound me a tree, ate my fill of the acorns,and felt a lot better. Then I began to getthirsty. Now where to get water?

I walked down the hill and found a lowplace with a wet spot in the middle of it.With my hand I scooped a little pit and al-lowed it to fill with water that cleared in afew minutes. It really tasted good.

I trudged back to my hilltop andwatched the full moon rise. I sat a whileagainst a tree until the air grew chilly, thenwalked around some. Every now and thena coyote would howl in the distance. Sofar as I could tell, he and I had the woodsto ourselves.

At dawn I breakfasted on acorns andtook up my position on the hill again, but Ididn’t receive any company. Out of bore-dom I’d walk up and down the hill, occa-sionally snacking on the acorns andslaking my thirst at the little seep.

The day wore on. I thought, “They’veforgotten me”, but I didn’t panic. I knewbetter than to try to walk out except as a

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last resort. It was a long way to civiliza-tion.

About midnight of the second day Iheard a car off in the distance. Pretty soona couple of troopers emerged from thetrees, accompanied by a local man who’dbrought his bloodhounds to track the fugi-tives. One hound was young and theother older and more experienced. Theowner handed me the leash to the olderone. “You hold tight to that dog,” he said.“If you let him free, he’ll tear those guys topieces!”

He took the young dog, with the inten-tion of circling in the opposite direction,hoping to locate the fugitives’ trail.

That old dog led me to a blackberrypatch as big as a house. He stopped,sniffed, and started circling the patch. Hewent around twice, then stopped at a holewhere some animal had dug an entrancefor a den. He sniffed again and suddenlylunged for the hole. I couldn’t hold him. Hewas a big, strong dog. I wasn’t about to lethim drag me into those thorns, so I let go.A few minutes passed. I didn’t hear any-thing, nor did the dog reappear. I left andmet the bloodhound man.

“Where’s the dog?” he wanted to know.

“In the blackberry thicket. I couldn’thold him. Let him tear ‘em to pieces if hewants to, but I don’t think they’re in there.”

Our search was proving unsuccessful,so we decided to leave the area. This wasabout daylight and I reminded them that Ihadn’t eaten anything for 48 hours butchinquapin acorns and water.

At a cafe in Seligman I asked for adouble order of ham and eggs. While theywere frying, I called my wife, who wasquite distraught. No one had called her totell where I’d been for the past two days,so she wanted to hear everything. I ex-plained as much as I could, but had to

break off when the food came. “I’ll tell youthe rest later,” I told her. “I’ve got to eat.”

The Missouri-North Arkansas railroadline ran through Seligman south to EurekaSprings, Arkansas. Somebody got theidea of putting an officer in the engine andanother in the caboose and riding the trainsouth, hoping the fugitives would hop thetrain and we could apprehend them thatway. While riding along in the caboose, Iglanced up on a hillside and there lay bothof those bloodhounds fast asleep. They’dgotten as tired of the chase as we had.

The authorities caught the burglarsseveral weeks later in Oklahoma. Theyhadn’t even been out in those woodswhere we were searching. A partner hadpicked them up in a different car andthey’d fled the area.

Every time I think of that incident, I re-member how good those chinquapinstasted that second day.

It was April 13, 1933, that I experiencedmy baptism of fire, so to speak. Some-body had been pulling a lot of robberies inthe area; suspicion pointed to the peopleliving in a house on 34th Street in Joplin.Neighbors said the residents of the househad several cars, all with license platesfrom different states. They rarely left in thedaytime, but were seen coming and goingat odd hours in the night. Apparently, noneof them worked.

The house was built of Carthage stoneand had two stories, the upper one con-sisting of living quarters and the lower agarage large enough to park four cars in-side. It sat right on the sidewalk, facingsouth on 34th Street and was the secondhouse from the corner of 34th and OakRidge Drive. The corner house faced OakRidge Drive to the west. Neighbors saidthe occupants always backed two carsinto the garage and another between thehouses.

I had gone out to the house when thereports were first received and checked

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the registration plate on the car parkedoutside. It checked to a person in Kansason that car, so we didn’t think too muchmore about it, as we had no direct evi-dence that they were involved in anycriminal activity.

Then on April 12 the Neosho MillingCompany was robbed. The proprietor,Harry Bacon and his wife were held cap-tive while the robbers rifled the safe. Thedescription of the robbers seemed to fitthe folks in the house.

The next step was to secure a searchwarrant and investigate these people.Most of Joplin is in Jasper County, but thesouthern one-fourth, where the house waslocated, is in Newton County, so TrooperWalt Grammer and I went to Neosho, thecounty seat, where the prosecutor issuedthe warrant. Wes Harryman, the constableof the township accompanied us back toJoplin. He would serve the warrant, as thelaw didn’t permit us to do it.

We stopped at the Joplin Police Stationto make plans. We decided that Grammerand I would go in one car—it was CaptainEslick’s Model A sedan—and Harrymanand two Joplin detectives, Harry McGinnisand Tom Degraff would follow in the other.While the others served the warrant,Grammer and I were to check identifica-tion numbers on the car parked betweenthe houses.

We didn’t realize who we were dealingwith. If we had, we’d have lined up a lotmore help. The people in that house wereBonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow (betterknown as simply “Bonnie and Clyde”),Clyde’s brother, Buck, and wife, Blanche,and W. D. Jones, all known to Texas lawenforcement authorities as dangerouscharacters.

As I approached the house from theeast on 34th Street, I noticed the Barrowbrothers standing in front of the house.The garage doors were open. They had

evidently just arrived and were talkingprior to entering their apartment.

“Step on it,” said Grammer. “We’ll getup there before they get inside.”

So, I stepped on it, but of course thoseModel As didn’t have much scat.

They looked up, saw us coming, andcausally moved inside the garage, pullingthe doors shut behind them. I drove rightup to the garage entrance, and Grammersaid, “Hey fellows, wait up, we want to talkto you.”

That’s when the shooting started. Theyopened up on us with rifles and shotguns.Luckily, Grammer and I weren’t hit.

“Cover the back!” I shouted toGrammer. He ran around to the rear of theBarrow house and after firing a fewrounds, I scrambled over behind the ad-joining house out of the line of fire.

The police car was a short distance be-hind us. DeGraff was driving, withHarryman beside him, and McGinnis inthe back seat. They should have beenalerted to trouble by our quick exit, but in-stead of stopping down the street, theypulled right in beside the patrol car.Harryman climbed out and walked to thepartially open garage doors. As he tookhis search warrant from his pocket, one ofthe Barrows shot him point blank in thechest with a sawed-off shotgun, killing himinstantly.

DeGraff leaped out and ran around tothe back with Grammer, as HarryMcGinnis rolled from the passenger sideand ran to the right-hand garage door. Hesmashed out the window and shoved hispistol inside. Before he could fire, one ofthe criminals shot him through the crack inthe doors. The shotgun blast severed hisright arm at the elbow. Slugs hit him in theface and body as well.

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As I started to reload, I glanced up tosee the muzzle of a machine gun protrud-ing from behind the right-hand garagedoor. It was Clyde Barrow and he was fir-ing at one of the fallen policemen. I aimedabout where I judged his body to be andput two or three bullets through the door.He dropped the weapon and ran inside. Atthe time I thought I’d hit him, but found outlater I’d only shot off his necktie!

There was a side window in the apart-ment. Just as I looked up to check it, W.D.Jones swung a Browning machine rifle outof the garage door and opened up. Withthe initial burst, I felt sharp pains in myface and neck. I thought, my God, half myhead is gone. But the shells had hit thehouse, and I’d been struck by stone frag-ments blown free by the slugs.

I knew I had no chance against thatkind of firepower with my little .38 pistol,so I ran around the house. He continuedto fire, and how he missed, I’ll neverknow. As I rounded the corner I trippedover a poultry wire that bordered aflowerbed and fell. As I rolled around thecorner of the house, I saw Jones turnaround.

“Where did the other son of a bitchgo?” he said, meaning Grammer. Jonesthought he’d killed me.

From about 25 feet away, I took carefulaim and fired. The slug hit him just be-neath the right shoulder blade. He fellback inside the garage.

This was the last cartridge in my re-volver, so I ducked back down and beganreloading. Suddenly, I heard someonecoming around the opposite side of thehouse. Again I thought I’d had it, but itwas only Walt Grammer.

“Get in that house and call for help!” Itold him, and managed to load two shellsin my gun. Meanwhile, the Barrows had

pitched the wounded W.D. Jones into oneof the cars inside of the garage and,joined by Bonnie Parker and Blanche,started to drive out. The police carblocked the way, so Buck jumped out andreleased the brake. The car rolled downthe street and struck a tree. DeGraff and Ifired several rounds at their fleeing car,but to no avail.

This whole incident lasted only aboutone minute from the first shot to the finalone. Constable Wes Harryman had beenkilled instantly and the Joplin police detec-tive, Harry McGinnis, died that night.

In the apartment, we found an oldEastman Kodak camera with a roll of filminside. One of the shots was the now fa-mous one of Bonnie Parker leaning on theheadlight of a Model T Ford with her foothiked up on the bumper, cigar in hermouth, and stag-handle pistol in her righthand. That pistol was stolen from TomPersell, a Springfield policeman, whomthe gang had kidnapped in January of1933. He had been released unharmed.

On a table lay several sheets of blackpaper on which Bonnie Parker had beencomposing a poem, “Suicide Sal,” in whiteink. The poem only lacked a couple oflines before completion. She had evi-dently been writing when the shootingstarted, because the ink was still wet.

The gang had also left two of their cars,several pistols, and the Browning machinerifle that is now displayed at the PatrolMuseum in Jefferson City.

W.D. Jones left the gang in August of1933, and was captured on his way backto Dallas. I later interviewed him in thepenitentiary at Huntsville. By that time,Buck Barrow was dead from wounds suf-fered in another gun battle near PlatteCity, Missouri, and his wife, Blanche, hadbeen caught in Iowa.

Jones showed me the scar left from mybullet. The place it exited his chest left a

22

hole large enough to put your thumb into.The slug had passed completely throughhim but missed his vital organs. He saidthey’d stopped at a country store after flee-ing Joplin and bought a little bottle of rub-bing alcohol. Bonnie Parker pried open thewound with knitting needles and filled it withthe alcohol. That was the only treatmenthe’d had!

Jones had been shot numerous times onother occasions. The backs of his hands

felt like beanbags from the buckshot em-bedded there. He had five buckshot in hislip, and one side of his face was full too.You could put your hand on it and feel theshot rolling around.

I saw an article in the newspaper a yearor so ago saying that he’d finally been re-leased from prison, but a short time after-wards somebody shot and killed him in afight in a beer joint.

Bonnie and Clyde’s Browning rifle is on display in the Patrol’s Safety Education Center.

This now famous photo of BonnieParker shows her holding a pistol shetook from a Springfield officer.

Pictured is Bonnie andClyde’s hideout in Joplin,Missouri.

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Clyde Barrow was impotent, you know.He kept W.D. Jones around to satisfyBonnie. The authorities finally caught upwith Bonnie and Clyde about a year afterthe Joplin gunfight and killed them in Loui-siana.

Times were different then, not worse,just different. There are just as many trig-ger-happy thugs around now, but therewere more of the big-time boys out andaround in the 30s. In those days, Joplinwas known as “The First Night Out,” mean-ing it was about one day’s drive from Chi-cago when things got too hot up there.

Ma Barker and her gang, made up of hersons and several other killers, would occa-sionally come to Joplin, but didn’t stay long.Her husband lived there and ran a fillingstation on Seventh Street, but he wouldn’thave anything to do with them. The samewas true of his brother who resided inWebb City.

Jimmy Lawson, a former member of theBarker gang and a parolee from a Kansaspenitentiary, started hanging around thePatrol headquarters in Joplin, more for self-protection than companionship, I think. Oneday I was sitting there minding the store—we didn’t have a secretary and SergeantSayers was off duty—when Jimmy walkedin and sat down. I was busy writing reportsand wasn’t paying much attention to him.

About 1 o’clock in the afternoonGrammer came in. Noticing that Jimmylooked a little pale, he said, “Jimmy, haveyou been getting enough to eat?”

Lawson didn’t answer.

“Well, you had lunch, didn’t you?” askedGrammer.

“No.”

“Well, what did you have for breakfast?”

“Nothing.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t have the money to buy any-thing with,” he admitted.

Grammer reached in his pocket andpulled out a dollar bill. “There, go over tothe restaurant and get yourself somethingto eat,” he said. Grammer smiled, said solong to me, and left in his patrol car.

I finished my report a few minutes laterand looked up to see Jimmy Lawson stillsitting there. He was holding the dollar billGrammer had given him and tears wererolling down both cheeks.

“What’s the matter?” I said.

“I was just thinking how near I come tokillin’ him one time. And here he’s givin’me money to eat on.”

“How’s that?”

“Several years ago, me and the boyshad been up in Iowa and pulled a job ortwo and the law was after us. We wastryin’ to get home on the side roads. Justbeyond Saginaw (southeast of Joplin)Grammer pulled up behind us in his patrolcar. We had the taillights cut off so nobodycould read the license plates. He stoppedus.

“The minute we stopped, I rolled out ofthe right side with a sawed-off shotgun. Ifhe’d started to search us or even shinedhis flashlight inside, I’d have killed himright there. Hell, I wasn’t over 10 feetaway. But all he said was, “Stop at thenext station and get your taillight fixed.”Then he turned around and went back tohis car, and we drove off.

“Now, here I haven’t had anything toeat since noon yesterday, and the man Iwould have killed gives me money for ameal.”

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The next time I saw Grammer, I toldhim what Lawson had said. He didn’t evenremember stopping the car.

In 1934, I was promoted to sergeantand transferred to Springfield. I hadn’tbeen there long when a circus came totown. They were unloading tents and ani-mal cages from railroad cars and haulingthem on big trucks to the circus grounds,a vacant lot at St. Louis Street andGlenstone Avenue. The trucks had badbrakes, so I was directing traffic at the in-tersection, stopping the traffic onGlenstone to let the circus trucks getacross to the grounds.

Things were going pretty well whenalong came a guy in a car on Glenstone.He was really flying. A circus truck wascoming toward us and it couldn’t stop. Ifinally got the automobile driver’s attentionand after a near collision, he pulled to theshoulder. He began to cuss me. He saidhe was in a hurry. I told him to wait rightthere until I could get traffic unsnarled, be-cause I wanted to talk to him. Then, hegunned his engine and started to leave. Iran back over and stopped him again. Be-cause he was so nervous and acting pe-culiarly, I decided I’d better restrain him tillI could question him further. But rightthen, I had to see that those circus trucksgot through the intersection without mis-hap.

So, I handcuffed him to the car door.He didn’t like that, but he soon shut upand I went back to directing traffic. When Ireturned 15 or 20 minutes later, he’dcooled down and he apologized. He saidhe’d been hasty and hadn’t understoodthe situation. He lived there in Springfieldand was otherwise a law-abiding citizen.

But, that wasn’t the end of it. The fellowgot to reflecting about the situation anddecided to write a complaint to ColonelCasteel. He also hired a prominent attor-ney, Sam Ware, and created a big stinkover the thing.

The Patrol held an investigation anddecided to bust me from sergeant totrooper and transfer me back to Joplin. Iwas glad to return, but not under thosecircumstances.

I learned later that a number of Spring-field citizens had made a pilgrimage toJefferson City to plead in my behalf, butthe decision stood. My mistake was nottaking the man to jail in the beginning andletting someone else watch those trucks.

It’s funny how stories grow with the tell-ing. When I was stationed in Springfield inthe early ‘40s, a fellow broke jail in War-saw, stole a machine gun, killed the sher-iff, and fled to the woods of Benton andHenry counties. Several state trooperswere assisting the local officers in themanhunt. After three days of following upreported sightings with no success, ourmen were worn out. Chester Oliver, whowas sergeant over at Nevada then, and Idecided we’d better go up and relievethem.

We were discussing our strategy whena man walked up and reported that the fu-gitive had been seen walking by a bighaystack on Highway 7 about 10 mileswest of Clinton.

Sure enough, we found tracks aroundthe haystack, leading across the field to-ward a creek. A home sat on the otherside.

“I’ll go down to that house and ask ifthey’ve seen him,” said Oliver.

“OK, I’ll wait there by the creek,” I said.

The man and wife in the house toldChester that a guy had been by there afew minutes ago. He’d gotten a drink ofwater and gone on up the creek.

“He’s just ahead of us,” yelled Oliveracross the creek. “you go down that sideand I’ll circle out into this field and see if Ican get ahead of him.”

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I walked along the stream, checkingoccasional thickets. I hadn’t gone farwhen I saw the escapee coming back to-ward me on the opposite bank. The creekwas narrow, only about 12 or 15 feet wide,but right there the banks were six orseven feet high and very steep, so Icouldn’t cross. I crouched down so hewouldn’t see me.

When he was directly opposite my po-sition, I raised up and told him to get hishands up and to turn his back to me.Keeping an eye on him, I quickly found aplace where I could get across. He offeredno resistance as I handcuffed him.

Then I heard Chester Oliver holleringfrom the top of a dirt pile he’d climbed toget a better view of the terrain. “I don’t seehim! Are you doing any good?”

“I’ve got him!” I yelled back. “Come ondown!”

We took him back to Warsaw.

A few months later the story of themanhunt and capture was featured in adetective magazine. I had a copy for along time, but I loaned it to somebody andit got away. The author must have foundthe facts as reported to be too dull, so heembellished the event somewhat.

He described the terrain as “ruggedOzark Mountains, slashed by deep ra-vines, and covered with mammoth treesand impenetrable undergrowth” throughwhich Chester and I trailed the murdererfor miles. According to the author, I thenspotted the fellow and pointed him out toChester, who grabbed hold of a wildgrapevine and swung down Tarzan-style,landing on the fellow’s shoulders. A terrificbattle then ensued with Oliver finallyemerging the winner.

Every now and then when I seeChester Oliver, I think of that story andask him, “Have you been swinging on anygrapevines lately?”

I was stationed in Springfield until1955, when I moved to Troop G at WillowSprings. I served there until my retirementin 1965.

Church work has filled much of my timesince I left the Patrol. In 1965, I waselected moderator of the Missouri Synodof the United Presbyterian Church. Thefollowing year I was chairman of theSynod General Council, and in 1967chairman of the Executive Committee ofthe Synod.

In 1967, the church decided to consoli-date the synods. Until then, they had beendivided by states. I was elected as one ofthe Synod’s representatives on the Reor-ganizing Commission and served until thework was completed in 1973. Since then Ihave been chairman of Presbytery’s Per-sonnel Committee and a member ofPresbytery’s General Council.

My wife and I have a son and a daugh-ter, both married and residing in Florida.Our son has a boy aged 7 and a girl aged4. We spend a month or two each wintervisiting them and enjoying the sunshine.

(Note: This interview took place in 1980.Retired Lieutenant George B. Kahler diedin 1993)

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In the spring of 1980, the new policestation in Jefferson City was named forTom Whitecotton, in tribute to his serviceto the public as a highway patrolman, pe-nal administrator, and city councilman.Certainly he has led a busy, exciting life. Amember of the Patrol’s original 1931 Re-cruit Class, Tom relates his experiences inquite, thoughtful tones, but beneath thegentle smile, one senses an iron resolve,a man who can make a decision.

Yes, in April of 1980, I plan to retire forthe third time. I’ve served the public forover 50 years, two as a schoolteacher, 34as a highway patrolman, 7 1/2 in the Mis-souri Department of Revenue, and thepast eight on the city council of JeffersonCity.

Funny thing about retirement. Every-body dreams of doing as he pleases. I re-member asking Dave Harrison, a formersuperintendent of the Patrol, what heplanned to do after he retired. “Nothin’!”he assured me. For awhile that ideaseemed appealing, but as the day ap-proached for me to leave the Patrol, I real-ized that old saying is true. “When a manreaches the point where he can do whathe’s always wanted to do, he doesn’t wantto do it anymore.”

I thought I’d work part time, to sort oftaper off, but part-time work was scarce. Iwas still looking when I was attending mylast motor vehicle administrator’s meetingin Florida in late 1965. John Paden, thenthe supervisor of the Commercial VehicleSection of the Department of Revenue,was there. “Had any luck finding a job?”he asked.

“None yet,” I told him.

THOMAS E. “TOM” WHITECOTTON

“If you want full-time work, come andsee us,” he said.

So, I had a talk with Tom David, the di-rector of the Revenue Department. “Whencan you go to work?” he asked.

“Not before Monday,” I said. (This wason the preceding Thursday.)

So, I went back to work. I stayed there7 1/2 years and held three or four posi-tions under three directors: Tom David,Jim Schaffner, and Jim Spradling. I was incharge of all the license fee offices in thestate when I retired from the Revenue De-partment in March of 1973. ChristopherBond was governor then.

A month later, I ran for the city council,and I’ve served there ever since. My latestterm ends in April of 1980, and I plan to

Thomas E. Whitecotton, shownhere as a sergeant.

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retire permanently then—well, maybe.You never can tell what may happen.

Believe it or not, these past eight yearsI’ve been busier than when I had a full-time job. Besides my council duties, I helpmy son manage a farm. The last severalyears of my Patrol career, I was stationedat General Headquarters, so my hourswere regular eight to five, with weekendsoff, but it wasn’t always that way.

In 1931, Patrol officers were required towork 12-hour shifts, with only three daysoff a month. If a court case was scheduledon your off day, that was too bad. Theytried to give us a weekend off each quar-ter, but it wasn’t always possible. Those12-hour shifts often stretched to 14 or 16,or sometimes 24 hours. If you were in-volved in a manhunt, you might be out fordays. They just left you out there until thecriminal was captured or until it was deter-mined he got away. I remember two man-hunts in particular, both for slayers ofMissouri highway patrolmen.

When Sergeant Ben Booth was mur-dered in 1933 near Columbia, wesearched Callaway County for two daysand nights without success. They didcatch the men involved later on, though.George McKeever was hanged in 1936,and Francis McNeily was paroled while Iwas director of penal institutions in thelate ‘40s.

In 1941, Trooper Fred Walker died atthe hands of two boys he’d stopped in astolen car north of Bloomsdale inJefferson County. They took his pistol,shot him, and fled in the patrol car, only tobe apprehended the following day inPerryville.

We wore those knee-length boots then.After a day of walking in the fields andwoods, your feet itched and burned sobad you couldn’t wait to get those bootsoff.

But, I’m getting ahead of my story. Let’sback up to 1927 when I graduated fromhigh school with a teaching certificate. For

two years I taught at a rural school housein Monroe County, and tried to live on thepaltry $65 to $70 salary they paid meeach month. I just couldn’t make it. So, Idecided to go to St. Louis, get a job toearn some money, and eventually attendlaw school. I applied at the police depart-ment for a job answering the telephone inthe evening. A lot of the fellows workedthere and attended Washington Universityin the daytime. But, that didn’t pan out,and I wound up working at various places:service stations, the Ambassador Theater,and the 1929 Grand Assembly of Law-makers as a clerk.

In 1931, the Missouri Legislature cre-ated the Highway Patrol. I, along with5,000 other guys, took the examination,and I made it.

Our training started October 5, 1931,and lasted about a month. Followingabout two weeks of vacation, we were toldto report to our assigned stations with ourvehicles. My station was Troop A, whichhad its headquarters in the Missouri High-way Department building on 31st Street inKansas City. My “vehicle” really couldn’tproperly be called a vehicle. It was an In-dian motorcycle. If a more awkward, un-comfortable machine has ever been built,I’d like to see it. You sat up too high on thethings and their road-handling characteris-tics were terrible—if you could get themstarted, which was seldom. I don’t knowhow many years I kept that Indian, but Iknow one thing: It was too long!

The most unusual duty we drew on themotorcycles was escorting GovernorLloyd Stark, who served as chief execu-tive of Missouri from 1936 to 1941. Starkand Tom Pendergast, a political boss inKansas City, carried on a running feudthroughout most of Stark’s term in office.The governor was afraid Pendergastwould have him assassinated, so Starkkept himself surrounded by highway pa-trolmen constantly.

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Whenever Stark traveled from Jeffer-son City to Kansas City, he’d have a pa-trolman chauffeuring and two more in theback seat of his limousine. Two motor-cycle officers would meet him at LoneJack on U.S. Highway 50 and escort himthe remaining 30 miles to Kansas City, re-gardless of the temperature or weather. Ifwe’d take him to Union Station to catch atrain, we’d have to shield him with ourbodies to protect him from bullets thatnever came.

We always thought how silly the wholething was. Pendergast would never haveharmed Stark in Kansas City, becausePendergast would have been blamed forit. He supposedly had control of most ofthe hoodlums, and I could imagine him is-suing orders to them, “Go home and staythere, and hide your weapons. Lloyd Starkis coming to town.”

Many’s the time I met him at Lone Jackin bitterly cold weather, escorted him westthrough Lee’s Summit, finally reaching theMuehlebach Hotel in downtown KansasCity. When I climbed off my cycle, Icouldn’t tell if my feet were touching theground or up in the air, they were sonumb. That’s the kind of thing you canlook back on 45 years later and laughabout.

In the early ‘30s, there weren’t manytraffic laws, so when you caught someonedriving crazy, you had to take him beforethe justice of the peace—who knew noth-ing about the law and didn’t care tolearn—and convince the justice that thedriver deserved punishment for recklessdriving. If you were persuasive enough,justice was serviced. From a legal stand-point it stunk.

Jackson County was very political then.You’d take a guy to post bond and he’d bereleased on his own recognizance, andyou knew the fellow would never appearin court, because he was a friend of afriend. I got tired of going to court only to

learn that the charges had been dropped.Russ Gabriel was the prosecutor for east-ern Jackson County, and I finally askedhim, “Would you do me a favor? When Ibring in somebody, and you know thecharge will be kicked, let me know rightthen. I’ll write it up that way, and it’ll saveus a lot of time.” Russ said he would.

One day, he and I were driving to BlueSprings to hold court and came upon a fe-male drunken driver. She stopped in re-sponse to my signal, but when I walkedup to the car, she came out fighting andclawed me across the face. I belted herone right in the jaw. She quieted downand we took her to jail.

“Tom,” said Russ, “I’ll stick by you onthat bitch.”

“Well, I hope you do,” I said.

Naturally, her appearance dates incourt were delayed several times ‘til finallyRuss called me. “Tom, I’m going to haveto kick that case of the drunk woman.”

“That’s OK,” I said. “I got my satisfac-tion out there on the highway.”

Crude as they were, our efforts didbring about improvements in laws and le-gal procedures, and I’m convinced thatthe Highway Patrol was a positive force inmaking the highways safer. There aremore fatalities now, but per capita thereare far fewer, and there are many morevehicles on the highways today.

You hear a lot of wild talks about thegunfight between law officers and Bonnieand Clyde near Platte City on July 20,1933. Well, I participated, so I’ll add myversion.

We had no two-way radios in our patrolcars then, so when the troop headquar-ters had a message for us, they’d phonerestaurants where we made regular stops.

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The Red Crown Tavern near Platte Citywas one of these stopping places. Theyserved good food and a lot of the boys atethere. The owner also had several touristcabins next to the restaurant.

Word came to our office that three menand two women had rented two of thecabins and were acting suspicious. Theynever set foot in the Red Crown, butwould instead send one man to the res-taurant across the highway for carryoutmeals. When a license check on their carrevealed that it had been stolen in Okla-homa from a doctor and his girlfriend, weknew we had some hot customers.

Captain Baxter, the commanding officerof Troop A, Trooper Leonard Ellis, and Idrove to the scene, arriving about 11o’clock on the night of July 19. I’d beenworking in the office all day and was wear-ing a seersucker suit and a Panama hatinstead of my uniform. We met the Platte

County Sheriff, Holt Coffey, and severaldeputies. Holt had asked Sheriff TomBash of Jackson County to bring his ar-mored car and a few of his deputies, too.

The cabins were connected by adouble car garage. Bonnie Parker andClyde Barrow were in one cabin, andBlanch and Buck Barrow and W.D. Joneswere in the other. We stationed two PlatteCounty deputies on top of the Red CrownTavern. The armored car, with two Jack-son County men inside, was parked in thedriveway, blocking the only escape route.A deputy and I were set up at the end ofthe driveway as backup, and the rest ofthe officers were arranged strategicallyaround the cabins.

At 1 a.m., Baxter and Coffey, carryingmachine guns and protected by armoredshields, walked to the door of Bonnie andClyde’s cabin and knocked.

“Who’s there?” asked Clyde.

“The sheriff. Open up!” said Coffey.

“Just a minute,” said Clyde, reachingfor his 30.06 machine rifle. He blastedseveral rounds right through the closeddoor.

Baxter staggered backward, unhurt andstill holding his gun and shield, but HoltCoffey ran for cover. You really couldn’tblame him with those slugs flying around.In the uncertain light, I mistook him forone of the gang members. I ran after himand yelled at Leonard Ellis, who wascloser to the cabins, “There’s one of ‘em!Get him!”

And, he did, too! Fortunately, Holt onlyreceived a superficial buckshot wound tothe neck. He believed ‘til his dying daythat Clyde Barrow shot him, but it was ac-tually a state trooper.

Bonnie and Clyde could reach thegang’s car by an interior door, but Buck,

Shown are notorious gangsters BonnieParker and Clyde Barrow, 1933.

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Blanche, and Jones had to come out thefront. When they did, Captain Baxteropened up with his machine gun, hittingBuck in the head. He stumbled to the carwith Blanche’s help, and with Clyde at thewheel, they roared out of the garage. Thehail of bullets from both sides was terrific.I hit the dirt, seersucker suit and all. Bul-lets whizzed overhead for a few seconds,then stopped. I guess they thought they’dhit me. Jones and Clyde concentratedtheir fire on the armored car, whichblocked the exit, and one slug actuallypenetrated the armor, slightly woundingone of the deputies.

If the lawmen had left that armored carwhere it was, the gang would never haveescaped, but the deputies panicked andmoved it out of the way. Clyde zipped thecar through the opening. At the end of theroad where I had been standing before Imistakenly chased Sheriff Coffey, thedeputy fired and shattered a pane, blind-ing Blanche, but the way was clear nowand the Barrow gang escaped. Several ofthe lawmen were wounded, but none seri-ously.

Only a day or two later, the Barrowsengaged in another gunfight with officersin Iowa. Buck was killed and Blanche wascaptured. Jones left Bonnie and Clyde afew months afterwards, only to be appre-hended and returned to Dallas to facemultiple charges. I understand he turnedstate’s evidence on Bonnie and Clyde,claiming they’d forced him to participate inrobberies and killings, but he received along prison sentence anyway. Bonnie andClyde were killed a few months later inLouisiana.

Not too long after the Bonnie and Clydeshootout, I had another interesting experi-ence. It, too, occurred near Platte City.Two boys had left a service station withoutpaying for gas. A sheriff’s deputy spottedthem and gave chase in his car. The boysfinally ran their car into the ditch, jumped

out, and fled into the woods. Two or threeof us drove up to assist the sheriff’s men.We split up into small groups and startedsearching the woods near the PlatteRiver. Before long we came upon a housethat appeared to be abandoned. The sher-iff assured me no one lived there. “We’dbetter take a look inside,” I said.

The front door was locked. I walkedaround to the side door. A stoop had beenthere, but it had been removed, so thebottom of the door was about two feetabove the ground. I pushed on the door,but it wouldn’t budge. I backed off andkicked it open. The door hit somethingand bounced back almost shut.

Through the crack came the muzzle ofa shotgun, pointed directly at my head. Iwas carrying a riot gun and instinctivelyjerked it up and fired. The guy insidescreamed, dropping his shotgun andslammed the door again.

We yelled at him to come out, but re-ceived no response. We fired several teargas shells into the house and then wentin. Under a bed we found the fellow I’dshot, an old gentleman who had been liv-ing in the house. He had no connectionwith the two boys we were searching for.

The shotgun blast had only grazed theskin on the top of his head. We took himto the doctor, who patched him up andsent him on his way. I often look back onthat incident and think how lucky both ofus were. The old fellow could have easilykilled me or I him, an innocent, frightenedman.

I sometimes reflect back on those oc-currences and similar ones and think, ifonly I had it to do over, I’d do it differently,but, maybe not. Luckily, you do the rightthing most of the time, so you don’t reallyhave many regrets. It’s funny how some-thing you say or the way you say it canchange a situation, bring about positiveresults.

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One night back in the ’30s TroopersJim Judkins and Herb Brigham hadcaught a couple of thieves and were inter-rogating them in the troop headquarters.Their questions had elicited only lies, soJim and Herb had gotten a little physicalwith them. The suspects still wouldn’t talk.

They were there when I reported forwork the following morning. “What’s thematter?” I asked Herb, whose temper waswearing thin.

“Oh, these sons of bitches won’t talk,”he sputtered.

I turned to one of the thieves and said,“What’s the matter with you, fellow? Whydon’t you tell the officer what he wants toknow and get it over with?”

That guy looked at me and sighed, andtold everything. It was crazy. I don’t knowyet why he decided to talk after holdingout all night.

Words aren’t always enough, though.Sometimes, a little physical coercion canwork wonders. In 1934, Trooper ChesterOliver was kidnapped. His captors didn’tharm him, but they did take him for a wildride. After their capture, Trooper HerbertH. “Pappy” Holt brought them into our of-fice for interrogation. Colonel B. MarvinCasteel, the Patrol superintendent, wasquestioning one of them, with the help ofCaptain Baxter and several other officers.I was facing Casteel and standing behindthe young suspect, who wouldn’t tellCasteel anything. I listened to that awhileand finally I saw red. I hauled off andwhopped that boy on the side of the headwith my open hand. It sounded like a pis-tol shot.

The Colonel nearly swallowed his pipe.“Now, son ... son,” he stammered, “y-y-you better start telling the truth!”

I thought possibly the next thing he’dsay was, “Whitecotton, you’re fired!” But,he didn’t. Maybe he was too startled. But,

the boy gave us straight answers afterthat.

I spent 11 1/2 years in Troop A, mostlyin Lee’s Summit, but in 1942, Superinten-dent M. Stanley Ginn transferred me toTroop C at Kirkwood, near St. Louis. I hadjust built a home on O’Brien Road in Lee’sSummit and was reluctant to sell rightaway, thinking the transfer might be tem-porary. I’d had two short assignments inBethany and Sedalia earlier. Two otherpatrolmen, Jim Judkins and Herb Brighamhad built houses near ours. “I think I’llwait,” I told everybody. “I may be back be-fore long.”

But, time passed and when CaptainLewis Howard joined the Merchant Ma-rines, I was promoted from troop sergeantto captain. I was there until 1944 and re-ally enjoyed working with the officers. Wehad fun, but we got the job done, too.

The guy I remember best was TrooperJ.D. Chorn (pronounced corn). What acharacter. He’d cook up some of the crazi-est practical jokes—nothing malicious,just funny stuff.

J.D. was forever scaring our custodian,Virgil. One morning Chorn rigged up somelong Dracula fangs out of paper. Then, hescrounged an old bed sheet from some-where, went down to the basement, laydown on a table, covered himself with thesheet, and waited for Virgil.

When the custodian came in to sweep,J.D. raised up very slowly, letting thesheet slide down to reveal his bulgingeyes and protruding fangs. Virgil shrieked,threw away his broom, and tore up thesteps and out of the building as fast as hecould go.

I didn’t know anything about the prank,and along about noon, I was sitting in myoffice talking to somebody, when I lookedup and there was Virgil staring in my win-dow from the outside. His eyes were wild.I had a heck of a time coaxing him backinside.

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“What’s the matter, Virgil?” I asked.

“Captain Whitecotton, I like these men,but they’re scaring me to death.”

I didn’t want to lose Virgil, so I told J.D.to tone down his antics a little.

Chorn has his own lie detector ma-chine. That’s right; he designed and built ithimself. He’d bring in a criminal suspectand interrogate him. If J.D. thought theguy was lying, he’d ask him to submit to atest on the machine. Of course, it wasn’t areal polygraph, just a metal box with a lotof dials, meters, lights, and attachmentsthat didn’t measure anything. J.D. wouldhook the guy up to the contraption, andwhen the suspect gave a wrong answer,Chorn would hit a switch and make thelights flash on the lie detector.

“You’re lying,” he’d say. “The machinesays so.” Nine times out of 10, the sus-pect would confess his crime.

In 1944, I transferred to General Head-quarters in Jefferson City. In the spring of

1945, Governor Phil Donnelly asked meto take over as acting warden of the Mis-souri Penitentiary. “It’ll only be for a monthor so,” he told me. “I don’t know a thingabout being a warden,” I said, “but, I’ll dothe best I can.” I took a leave of absencefrom the Patrol and became the prisonwarden.

The one month stretched to six, thegovernor asked me to stay on as directorof the Department of Penal Institutions. Iserved there until Governor Forrest Smith

Tom E.Whitecotton (fore-ground, suit) lis-tens as ColonelE.I. “Mike”Hockaday andWarden RalphEidson makeplans to stop the1954 MissouriPenitentiary Riot.

Trooper J.D. Chorn

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replaced me in July of 1949. Following amonth’s vacation, I returned to the Patrol.

Between 1949 and 1952 I was sta-tioned at Troop B in Macon and Troop I inRolla. In fact, I was the first commandingofficer Troop I ever had. It wasn’t formeduntil 1950. My wife and I liked Rolla verymuch and made a lot of friends there.

Governor Donnelly was re-elected in1952, and I went back to the penitentiaryas director. Well, in September of 1954there was a major prison riot, and I de-cided to let someone else take over.

I was reassigned to General Headquar-ters and placed in charge of the Commer-cial Motor Vehicle Section, which enforcedbus and truck statutes. I liked this job be-cause I could travel all over the state. Ihad a fine bunch of sergeants and weightinspectors to do my work for me. I heldthis position until I retired in 1965.

Looking back to my days as a warden,I can’t help thinking about my most un-pleasant duty: performing executions ofcondemned criminals. I believe there were10 performed during my two terms, two ofwhich were double executions.

One of those doubles involved CarlAustin Hall and Bonnie Brown Heady, whoon September 28, 1953, kidnapped BobbyGreenlease, the young son of a prominentKansas City car dealer. They collected alarge ransom, but murdered the child.They were captured soon thereafter, andfollowing a speedy trial, were condemnedto die in the gas chamber on December19, 1953.

Ralph Eidson was the warden then. Ashe placed his hand on the lever that re-leased the cyanide pellets, I put my handon top of his. He looked at me question-ingly. “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything Iwouldn’t do,” I said, and we pulled the le-ver together.

Someone asked me at the time, “Howdo you feel when you take anotherperson’s life?”

“You try to have no feelings about it atall,” I answered. “You don’t hate the con-demned person, nor do you love him, orfeel sorry for him. His fate has been de-cided by the courts and it is your duty tocarry out the sentence.”

“But, haven’t there been any execu-tions that really got to you?” came thenext question.

“Yes, one. He was an elderly blackman who had committed a rape and mur-der. His cries and pleadings of ‘Don’t killme, I ain’t never hurt nobody’ were heart-rendering indeed, but I had no choice inthe matter.

Police and corrections work are differ-ent from most professions, because a lotof the time we deal with the bad side oflife. Seems like we tend to forget thepleasant things and remember the un-pleasant. Don’t get the idea though that Ihaven’t enjoyed my life with the Patrol,corrections, revenue departments, andcity council. Public life has been reward-ing, but I don’t intend to run for officeagain. When my last day on the councilhas ended and I’m really retired, I hope Idon’t get involved in anything else—but, Iprobably will.

(This interview took place in 1980. RetiredCaptain Thomas E. Whitecotton died June30, 1987.)

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Herb Brigham was an imposing sight inuniform and today, in his seventies, stillimpresses one as a powerfully built man.A part-time instructor of Patrol recruits foryears, Herb’s 29-year career includedduty on road patrol and in the Auto TheftUnit at General Headquarters. He will for-ever be remembered as the leader of thesuccessful counterattack against the riot-ing inmates at the Missouri State Peniten-tiary the evening of September 22, 1954.Herb recalls that night along with other ex-citing incidents in this account.

“While I was in the Army in 1928 nearRapid City, South Dakota, I read in theDenver Post that an attempt was beingmade by the Missouri Legislature to forma state constabulary. The bill didn’t passthen, but in 1931 they did create the Mis-souri State Highway Patrol. When I re-turned to Missouri, I applied toSuperintendent Lewis Ellis, and was ap-pointed April 4, 1932.

My badge number was 53, a replace-ment number for an original member whohad been discharged. My training, which

HERBERT D. “HERB” BRIGHAM

lasted two weeks, was under the directionof Sergeant (later Captain) Lewis B.Howard at the Capitol building. I wasgiven reading assignments in traffic andPublic Service Commission regulations,and criminal law. Believe it or not, Ipassed my exams by memorizing every-thing they gave me!

My first assignment was in the Head-quarters Troop, there being no Troop Fthen. The commanding officer was LewisMeans and we had two secretaries, TillieSonnen and Rose Bender. At that timethere was no records division, no finger-

Tpr. Herbert D.Brigham, est. 1932

Shown is the Patrol’s Safety Squadron, early 1940s.

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print division, and, of course, there wereno radios in the cars, so most of our or-ders came by phone.

We had no heaters in our Model Aroadster patrol cars, but then, theywouldn’t have been of much use, anyway,because we were ordered to patrol withthe tops down — except in inclementweather when we were allowed to useside curtains. I guess you could say thatour entire fleet was air-conditioned. Youmight wonder what we thought about pa-trolling in open cars. Well, it was for agood cause. We were visible to the publicand it wasn’t too bad. Speeds were muchlower then; 35 mph was the average forpatrolling. Our cars had no sirens and nored lights, but we did have a lighted signon the dash, which spelled out “Patrol”when we wanted to stop somebody. And,we used hand signals.

My area of patrol was down U.S. High-way 54 through the Lake of the Ozarksregion, and much of the route was gravel.You can imagine what my uniform lookedlike at the end of the day. At that time,there were only about 6,000 miles ofpaved roads in the state.

We had good acceptance from thepublic. From the very first we were trainedto be helpful. This was brought home tome one day in court when I was to testifyon a bank robbery. This would have beenin the mid 1930s. I was then stationed inLee’s Summit. Along about ChristmastimeTrooper Paul Corl and I received a phonecall from Troop A Headquarters sayingthat the bank at Lone Jack had been heldup by three men in a 1932 Chevrolet con-vertible. We drove south from Grain Valleyand met them coming off a side road.They stopped about a quarter mile awayand two of them jumped over a fence andfled through a field. The third fell in theditch. When we got to the car we foundthat the fellow in the ditch had been shotaccidentally in the foot by one of his com-

panions. Well he wasn’t going anywhere,so we took after the others. I overhauledone and handcuffed him. The other es-caped, but was caught by sheriff’s depu-ties later. The entire haul — $800 — wasrecovered.

When the prosecuting attorney of Jack-son County, T.A. Matheson, called us totestify, he didn’t want to hear what we hadto say until he told a story of his own. Itseems that the prosecutor was tremen-dously impressed with the actions of oneof our officers who had changed a tire forhis wife and daughter while they were enroute to a football game at Columbia. Soyou see, it pays to be helpful.

When I first moved to Troop A, ourheadquarters was in the basement of theHighway Department building at 31st andVan Brunt. I was assigned an Indian mo-torcycle, but patrolled in a car occasion-ally. It was a relief to get off thatmotorcycle once in a while. We rode themin inclement weather. You haven’t liveduntil you’ve ridden a motorcycle in deepsnow. But we were dressed for it —leather coats, gauntlets, high-toppedboots, and helmets with goggles likeWorld War I aviators wore. We neededthose because the cycles didn’t havewindshields. Later on when we did getthem, along with leg shields, patrollingwas much more comfortable.

The fortunate among us rode Harley-Davidsons. They were the ultimate in mo-torcycles then. They’d run about 115 mphand were very stable. We did have a fewaccidents; got skinned up a bit. Skin’dgrow back, but when you ruined a pair ofboots or trousers, it was expensive.

That reminds me of an incident that oc-curred about 1938. Trooper Jim Judkinsand I were escorting a military convoy onour motorcycles across Missouri on High-way 36 from Fort Leavenworth to the Illi-nois line. The convoy was composedmainly of prime movers, large vehicles ca-

36

pable of hauling tanks. We had been trav-eling at 28 mph with the vehicles spacedabout 50 yards apart. At a junction,Judkins told me his engine was fouling upbecause of the low speed, and that he’dhang back and run it a little to clear it out.I didn’t see him for a while.

Later as the convoy topped a hill, I no-ticed an Army rider pulling back into linebecause of oncoming traffic. At the sametime, I heard rubber squalling. I thought itwas the Army man, but no, it was JimJudkins. Coming up from the rear he hadlost control of his cycle and was veeringtoward me. His left handlebar hooked un-der my right one and onto the shoulder wewent. When we hit, we were propelled offthe bikes and over a fence. I finally got upand noticed that the seat of Jim’s pantswere badly worn. In fact, all I would seewas his rear pocket hanging free, com-mission book still in it, and bare skin. I

started laughing, but soon quit because Ibegan to hurt. I had dislocated my shoul-der. Up rolled the Army ambulance thattraveled at the rear of the column. Thedoctor sat me down, placed his footagainst my armpit and jerked my shoulderback in place. Not too pleasant an experi-ence, I can assure you.

My wife Dorothy was pregnant whenthis happened, and it fell on Sergeant TomWhitecotton to deliver the news of the ac-cident to her. He didn’t want to alarm her,so he told her this way: “Nothing to worryabout, Dorothy, Jim just tried to ride hismotorcycle piggyback on top of Herb’s.”

Most of our reports measured threeinches by five inches, all color-coded.Warnings were blue and services ren-dered reports, orange. I remember one ofthose orange ones turned in by an officerstationed in Hamilton. It read, “Drugfarmer’s ass off highway.” It seems he’dfound a mule on the road and removedthe animal.

We worked 12-hour shifts, usually from11 a.m. until 11 p.m.; nowadays thosehours seem a bit long, but we were youngand eager to do our jobs. Traffic controlwas our main objective, but I was alwaysmore interested in catching thieves—es-pecially car thieves. Though I don’t havethe figures to verify it, I’d say I averagedthree apprehensions a month. My interestin car thefts continued throughout my ca-reer. In 1954, when I was in GeneralHeadquarters, I authored an auto theftinvestigator’s manual, which was printedby the University of Missouri and dissemi-nated to police agencies throughout theUnited States. Martha Barnes, now thesuperintendent’s secretary, typed themanuscript.

I still have an original copy, along withmany letters from police chiefs and statepolice superintendents commending Colo-nel Waggoner. I’m quite proud of thismanual, and justifiably so, for I believe

Herb Brigham was a member of thePatrol’s pistol team for several years.He also taught firearms to a numberof recruit classes.

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nothing had ever been printed like this be-fore. The book discussed techniques ofinvestigation and described ways in whichautomobiles were being stolen and dis-posed of. That same year, 1954, I waselected president of the International As-sociation of Automobile Theft Investiga-tors, an organization of which I am acharter member and which has grownenormously in later years.

Do I remember any particular car thiefapprehensions? Yes, many, but since youhave limited space, I’ll tell only this onethat dates back to the ‘30s.

I was driving down Highway 50 atKnobtown, 12 miles east of Kansas City. AModel A coupe containing two men metme. It had a California license plate and Inoticed in my rear-view mirror that afterthey’d passed, they kept looking at me. Ialso noted that the spare tire, usuallymounted on the trunk, was missing. Iturned around and stopped them andasked for identification and the registra-

tion receipt. The car belonged to a personwho lived on Figueroa Street in Los Ange-les. I asked their names and where theywere from. They gave all the wrong an-swers. They’d hocked the spare tire inKansas, they said. I was suspicious, tosay the least, so I asked them, matter-of-factly, “Where did you steal this car?” Andthey told me—everything! It wasn’t oftenthat car thieves were so cooperative.

Bootleggers were active in those days,too. One night Trooper H.H. “Pappy” Holtand I were driving north on Highway 35from Harrisonville and spotted a coupewith Kansas plates. The rear of the carwas low, indicating that there was a heavyload aboard. When we got the carstopped, we looked in and there was thedriver with the front seat pushed up so farforward, his chest was against the steer-ing wheel. That allowed him to carry morecargo. He had a woman with him. Theyhad the back loaded with something cov-ered by brown paper. We didn’t have the

Pictured is the original Safety Squadron,1940, left to right: (front) M. Dace, R.E.Moore,W.A. Schuler; (back) H.D. Brigham, T.W.Pasley, J.A. Berglund, L.V. Estes, E.C.Smith, R.G. Breid, G.T. McIntyre, L.E.Poore, C.E. Potts, G.W. Lampley.

Herb Brighamrides his SafetySquadron mo-torcycle, early‘40s.

38

right of search and seizure, except forweapons, so I asked him what he washauling. “Liquid soap,” came the answer.Liquid maybe, but soap, I doubted. Wetook them to Lee’s Summit and called thefederal authorities, and when they openedone of the containers they found that the“soap” had a high alcohol content andwould have been more suitable for drink-ing than washing.

One evening in 1937 Jim Judkins and Isaw a 1936 Buick bearing Missouri li-cense plate 3620 —yes, I still rememberthe number—going north on U.S. 71,south of Kansas City. We knew the carbelonged to Johnny Vittorino, a knownwarehouse thief. We took off in pursuit inour 1937 Ford patrol car with our lightsout. We knew we’d never catch that bigBuick if he spotted us. As we approachedFairyland Park, we signaled the driver tostop. He tried to outrun us, but couldn’tget away. Johnny Vittorino was driving,accompanied by Sam Harris and JimmieGeorge, also thieves. These fellows musthave had 50 arrests between them. In theback seat I could see stacks of fur coatson hangers, on which was printed, “ThreeSisters, Springfield, Missouri,” a clothingstore.

I asked them, “Do you have a gun?”

“In the glove compartment,” said one,so I reached in and took it.

I guarded Vittorino and George whileJudkins interrogated Harris by the patrolcar. I suddenly became aware of a flurryof activity back there. I went to see whatwas going on and found Jim holding Har-ris’ glasses and Harris holding his head. Iasked what had happened.

Jim replied, “He offered me $50 to turnhim loose.” Jim was highly incensed. We

were men of integrity and could not bebribed.

So, I asked Harris, “Did you offer him$50?” And he said, “Yes.” But, he misinter-preted, thinking that I might be interestedin his offer. Why, I was so damned pro-voked, I hit him, too. Brought a little blood,as I remember it.

This had repercussions. Later Judkinsand I were called to Springfield to testifyon behalf of the state at the trial of the furthieves. The defendants were representedby three prominent attorneys, a Mr.Vandeventer, later a U.S. District Attorney,and two others of like stature.

On the witness stand, they asked me,“Did you hit Sam Harris?” And I replied,“Yes, I did,”—not arrogantly, but honestly.No use lying about it. The attorney askedwhy. And I said, “Because he offered me$50 to let him go.” I was immediately re-leased from further testimony. JohnnyVittorino received a seven-year prisonsentence; Harris and George, a four-yearsentence each.

One of the craziest adventures I everhad was the time I helped prevent thelynching of two Jehovah Witnesses. It wasin 1945, if my memory serves me cor-rectly. Pappy Holt, working the desk atTroop A, informed me that a mob hadgathered at Pleasant Hill and releasedtwo prisoners from the city jail. I drovearound the town and entered from thesouth, and there on the sidewalk I saw themob. At the storefront, two big huskieswere holding two old men and bangingtheir heads together, accompanied byshouts of, “Hang them!”

I stepped out with my shotgun andquickly separated the real militants fromthe rabble—there were three or four whowere instigating the disturbance—and ledthem into the vestibule of a building to findout what was going on. All the while the

39

mob, in which there were many womenand children, was milling around.

From the back of the crowd came thevoice of a town bully, Luther Jones, crying,“Go on in and get him (meaning me)!” Isaid, “Let that brave man hiding behind allthose women and children be the first tostep up!”

Well, that quieted him down, and bythis time I had help from one of my fellowofficers. Junior Wallace drove up and weloaded the instigators and the two menthey’d been abusing into the patrol car.Amid cries of, “Turn ‘em over,” Juniorfloored the gas pedal and the mob partedlike the Red Sea.

Now there’s a point to this story ... Ithink. And it is that things are not alwaysas they seem. Jehovah’s Witnesses claimexemption from military service by reasonthat all their members are ministers of thegospel. Naturally this didn’t sit too wellwith people during wartime. It seems thatthe two old men that I had rescued and ayounger companion had been passing outtheir newsletter, “The Watchtower,” on thestreets in Pleasant Hill. An altercationerupted between some local legionnairesand the Witnesses, and the town marshal

had locked up the Witnesses for assault.Apparently, they had provoked the inci-dent. I asked the mob participants later ifthey really would have hung those two oldmen. They said no, what they really in-tended to do was to drop them into theRock Island Lake. They probably wouldhave, too.

I enjoyed working the road, but I reallyfelt that I accomplished more training oth-ers. Beginning in 1938, after I graduatedfrom the FBI National Academy in Wash-ington, D.C., and continuing until 1961,when I retired, I was active in trainingschools for Highway Patrol officers. Itaught auto theft investigation, physicaltraining, and use of firearms. The physical

Sgt. HerbBrigham (stand-ing) working inthe Auto Theft Bu-reau of GeneralHeadquarters.

Lt. Herbert D.Brigham, 1954

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training included disarming exercises andmethods of overcoming passive and ac-tive resistance. I had to demonstrate howto remove an automobile driver whodoesn’t want to be removed from his car,using trainees as guinea pigs. I recall oneinstance vividly. It happened during an in-service school. Under the wheel was thebiggest man on the Highway Patrol,Trooper Ray Hollmann. He was about 6feet, 5 inches tall and weighed 240pounds.

Now, I’d told the class that this exercisewas only a demonstration, purely for train-ing, and that they were to offer only tokenresistance. But, Ray was his own man. Hewasn’t about to come out of that car. I wasusing the mouth hold where you hookyour finger into the driver’s opposite jawand twist him out. But this fellow wasstrong. He had one hand on the wheeland the other on my wrist, and I musthave had his mouth stretched severalinches. The car began to rock violently. Irealized that if I went much farther, some-body was going to get hurt. Then I felt atap on the shoulder. It was the superinten-dent of the Patrol, M. Stanley Ginn. Hesaid, “Break it up,” and we did. I wasnever so glad to see anyone in my life.

But, you know, those men who werethere have never let me forget that Icouldn’t get Ray Hollmann out of that car.Everyone likes to see the instructor gethis butt kicked. Nothing personal, I guess,but they enjoy it just the same.

Superintendent Ginn insisted on vigor-ous physical training. About 1942, we hadan in-service school at the Fairgrounds inSedalia. This was in August and theweather was hot. I lined the men up andwe jogged around the half-mile track infront of the grandstand. At the end of thatrun, we were bushed, but that didn’t sat-isfy the superintendent. He had me linethem up in single file, then bend over andgrab their knees. The fellow at the foot of

the line had to leapfrog all 54 of his com-rades. When he got to the head of theline, the man now at the rear had to dothe same. So, each guy had to leapfrog54 men and be leapfrogged by 54. I’ll betyou won’t find that one in your physicaltraining curriculum today.

I’ll always remember the riot at the Mis-souri Penitentiary on September 22, 1954.Captain K.K. Johnson called me at 7:01p.m. and said a disturbance had brokenout at the prison. I dressed and went tothe prison office, where I met ColonelHugh Waggoner, the superintendent. Hesaid the inmates were rioting and had setfire to several buildings inside. He told meto do what I had to do to restore order.Governor Phil Donnelly was there. Ilooked askance at the governor and henodded, so I knew I was justified in goingin and doing what I deemed necessary.

Only a few Patrol officers had arrived,but I directed Trooper Oren Liley and Ser-geant Ray Jenkins to go to the truck gateand see that no one got through. Luckilythe railroad company had rolled a boxcaragainst the outside of the railroad gate onthe far side of the compound to keep theinmates from breaking out. This was myfirst time in the prison. The yardmaster es-corted me across an overhead walkway.From there I could see the fires burningfuriously and the inmates out in the openhurling bricks at the yard lights.

I returned to the administration buildingand formed a small squad of troopers,among them Captain Potts and TroopersRuss Kennison and Carroll Price. Wewent up on the overhead and directed theinmates to cease activities and return totheir cells. I repeated these commandsseveral times and all I got were replieswhich were undignified to say the leastand characteristic of that class of people.

I decided that since they were not ame-nable to my suggestions, perhaps I shouldtake more drastic measures. I was carry-

41

ing a Thompson submachine gun andstarted firing three round bursts at themen in the front ranks. This came as agreat surprise, for they immediately turnedand scrambled away. In no time, thecrowd dispersed. I remember cautioningPotts and Kennison to be on their guardagainst inmates attempting to climb up onthe overhead. They had the means, asthey had piled up boxes high enough toreach us. The inmates had hidden, buthad not returned to their cells. I’dsay there were about 500 convictsrunning loose, inhabitants of A, C, E,K, and J Halls.

While standing on the overhead, Iheard a shot right behind me. It wasa prison guard firing at some in-mates who had climbed onto theroof of C Hall to dampen it with wa-

ter to keep it from burning. They were try-ing to help and here was this guy shootingat them. I ordered him to stop. This an-gered him and he left, saying he was go-ing to report me.

Lying out in the yard were several in-mates who had been wounded by gunfire.There would have been a lot more, butthe shotgun ammunition they’d boughtwas defective. I saw that we’d have totake a squad of troopers into the yard to

Lt. Herb Brigham prepares hisThompson sub-machine gunat the Missouri State Peniten-tiary, 1954.

After the riot, Lt. HerbBrigham displays some of theweapons used by convictsduring the riot in September1954.

42

round up the inmates, so I went backdownstairs to the administration buildingwhere more officers had gathered, alongwith a huge crowd of onlookers. I at-tempted to assemble a squad of 20 troop-ers, but the officer in charge refused,saying, “I’ll be damned if you get any men.I’m busy putting people up on the towers!”

Disheartened, I returned to the insideand saw Lieutenant Governor Jim Blair,followed by a crowd of newsmen. Theywanted me to give them the story of whathad happened. I replied that I could nottalk to them at that time, but that if theywanted to listen to what I said to Lieuten-ant Governor Blair, it was all right with me.I said, “Sir, we’ve broken the back of thisriot, but there are convicts that needrounding up and several wounded oneswho need to be brought into sick bay.”

“What do you need?” asked Blair.

“I’d like a squad of 20 men.”

I didn’t go with him, but I’m told he wentback outside where our men were as-sembled and counted off 20 and told themto follow him. Among them were SergeantErnest Van Winkle, the present assistantsuperintendent, and Trooper Kenny Miller,now director of the Laboratory.

I addressed the squad, explaining thesituation and telling them to use their fire-arms only when necessary. Most of themhad shotguns besides their .38-caliber re-volvers, and I acquired a portable radiounit, which I gave to Miller, and a bullhorn,which I gave to Van Winkle. I knew he hada strong voice and considerable battle ex-perience in World War II. I cautioned themnot to reply to the taunts of the inmatesand to remain in ranks.

As we started to enter the compound,along came a caravan of wounded in-mates. Those able to walk were carryingtheir companions on mattresses. We al-

lowed them to proceed on to the sick bayunder supervision. I might say that themajority of the wounds were in the poste-rior, as they had turned to run when hit.

We rounded up about 40 inmates andpassed them into the administration build-ing. While I was there I remember SamBlair, Circuit Judge of Cole County, at-tempting to get Jefferson City firemen toenter the compound to extinguish themany fires now raging inside. But, theyrefused, even when promised armedguards. So, the buildings continued toburn.

The inmates were holding severalguards hostage in C Hall. As we startedinto the place, we were met by a spokes-man for the group, who demanded thatnewsmen be allowed inside to hear theirgrievances about bad food, restrictedprivileges, and so on. And he threatenedus, saying, “If you patrolmen come inhere, these hostages are going to behurt.”

I replied thusly: “I’m going to tell youthis one time only. First, there will be nonewspaper people down here. Second,address your complaints to the adminis-tration of this institution (who were con-spicuous by their absence). Third, whenwe get ready to come in, we’ll come in. Ifyou hurt any of those hostages, there aregoing to be a lot of you people hurt. Goback and tell your friends that, and if theydoubt what I’ve said, you remind them ofall the people that have been picked upon this yard tonight.”

Things remained at a stalematethrough the night. I had to leave shortlyafter my conversation with the inmate be-cause my leg had started hurting. Ithought it was a charley horse, but when Igot home I discovered my trousers werecut and that I had a bruise about the sizeof a silver dollar on my calf. Apparently, anerrant bullet with its impetus nearly spenthad struck me during the earlier skirmish.

43

I’ve always been thankful that shell didn’thit me directly. I’d have been out of actionfor a while.

By the next morning, all the halls weresecured except C, where a number of theinmates, including many from other halls,were still holding out. Captain (later Colo-nel) Mike Hockaday planned to form twolarge squads and get them back into theircells. I led one group and LieutenantWillie Barton, later captain of Troop C, ledthe other.

We sent a squad up each side of thehall, which was divided into two sections,with four tiers of cells and a walkway allaround. We directed the inmates, most ofwho had holed up in the cells, to slamtheir doors, and then we’d pull the big le-vers locking the whole row. About thattime I heard a shotgun blast from the thirdtier. When I got there, I saw an inmate ly-ing on a bunk, his face bloody from thebuckshot that had struck him. One of hiscompanions inside said, “One of you so-and-so’s shot him.” I found out later thatthe fellow had been about to throw aheavy object down on the troopers belowwhen somebody brought him down.

A few days later, when things had qui-eted down, I took Trooper Jimmy Runkle,our photographer, up on a tower to obtaina panoramic view of the prison interior.The twine plant, the license plate plant,and the school building were all destroyedby fire. I made the comment within thehearing of a guard that this was all soneedless, and that it could have been pre-vented with quick action by the prison au-thorities. The guard said he’d been on thistower and had seen inmates climbing overthe “snitch gate” dividing the compoundand running around setting fires. I askedhim why he didn’t fire a warning shotdown there. He said he’d been directednot to.

“But, didn’t you have any weapons?”was my next question.

“Oh, yes, a rifle, shotgun, and a pistol.”

“Well, what did you do with them?” Isaid.

“Laid them on top of the wall, so I couldkick them off if any inmates started climb-ing up the tower after me.”

My justification for saying that a warn-ing shot would have discouraged the riot-ers was borne out by another guard’saction when some inmates had attemptedto roll four oil cars through the railroadgate. He fired at the ground and they scat-tered.

I must commend all the men who par-ticipated in quelling the riot, especiallythose who were in the 20-man squad thatwent in first. Willie Barton saved a prisonemployee’s life by rescuing him from theburning school building and there weremany other examples of bravery and re-sourcefulness.

People ask me if I miss Patrol work. Itell them, no, I don’t miss being in law en-forcement, but I do miss the acquaintan-ces I’ve built up in my years with thePatrol. These include not only troopers,but also members of other departments.The Patrol was more than a job to me.The salary wasn’t great, but it was ad-equate. My wife and I have acquired prop-erty and our two daughters are bothcollege educated—advantages I didn’thave. Counting my eight years in the mili-tary, I have spent 40 years in uniform, andit’s been a good life.”

(This interview took place in 1980. Re-tired Lt. Herb Brigham died in 1981.)

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A former star football player for South-east Missouri State College, GlennLampley served 35 years in Troop E. Hewas an original member of the Patrol’sSafety Squadron, a famous but short-liveddetail of 13 motorcycle officers, organizedin 1940, but disbanded a year later be-cause of the World War II draft. Glenn is aquiet, modest man who tends to playdown his Patrol experiences. Today, heunselfishly devotes himself to senior citi-zens’ work and can be justly proud of hisefforts.

In 1935, I was in my fourth year atSoutheast Missouri State College, major-ing in physical education, when I learnedthat the Missouri Highway Patrol was tak-ing applications for 35 new officers. Icouldn’t see myself teaching all my life,and I had always been interested in lawenforcement, so I applied and was ac-cepted.

Following recruit training at Camp Clarknear Nevada, I was stationed here inCape Girardeau and I’ve lived here eversince. Been in this very house, which Ibuilt, since 1941. My last five years on thePatrol, from 1965 to 1970, I served as en-forcement lieutenant for Troop E at theheadquarters in Poplar Bluff, but I contin-ued to live in Cape Girardeau, cominghome on my off days.

Yes, I live here alone now. My wife died16 years ago, and I never remarried.Don’t know why. Just never did.

My first year on the Patrol, I witnessedtwo public hangings in New Madrid, Mis-souri. Counties were empowered to per-form executions then. Several of ustroopers were assigned to keep order. I’llnever forget the sight: the scaffold sur-rounded by a high stockade, people

GLENN W. LAMPLEY

jammed inside and more milling aroundoutside, the sheriff handing out passes atthe gate to certain people and turningaway many more.

The condemned men, whose nameswere Damion and Hamilton, had held up aservice station and killed the operator. Idon’t remember which one mounted thescaffold first, but when they hit the leverreleasing the trap door, the noose failed tobreak his neck. He hung there twitchingfor two or three minutes, finally stranglingto death. It was horrible. When the secondman dropped, though, you could hear hisneck pop.

A few years later I saw another hangingin Sainte Genevieve; a young man wasput to death for killing his sweetheart.Prior to springing the trap, the officialsasked the man if he had any last words.He launched into quite an emotionalspeech, concluding with, “I’m prepared tomeet you, my darling, over there on theother side.” ... Perhaps he did.

I worked traffic most of the time duringmy road career, leaving the criminal workto Trooper Percy Little. Occasionally,Percy would call on me to help with an in-

Tpr. Glenn W. Lampley

45

vestigation, but the bulk of my activitieswere spent enforcing traffic regulations.

My mentioning Percy Little reminds meof a night we were investigating an acci-dent together on Missouri Highway 72,north of Millersville. We had finished theinvestigation and were sitting in the patrolcar with our red warning light flashing andour spotlight trained on the wrecked cardown in a ravine. In the rearview mirror Isaw a car approaching us, weaving uncer-tainly about the road.

“Percy, that guy’s going to hit us,” Isaid.

“No, he won’t,” he said, preoccupiedwith writing the accident report.

About that time Ka-Wham! He plowedinto the patrol car. Neither of us was hurt,but our uniforms were scuffed up. We gotout to check on the fellow who had hit us.He wasn’t injured either, but, boy, was hedrunk! Percy’s patrol car was out of com-mission, so I caught a ride into Jackson topick up my car.

One Saturday night Percy and I ranonto another drunk driver on Highway 61between Cape Girardeau and Jackson. Iwas driving, but having no luck at stop-ping the guy, who was wandering fromshoulder to shoulder.

“That fellow’s going to kill somebody,”said Percy. “I’m going to shoot a tiredown.”

I pulled up as close as I could behindthe drunk’s car. Percy aimed his pistol outthe window and fired. The right rear tireblew with the impact and the drunk threwup his hands in surrender. With nobodysteering it the car veered off the shoulderand out into a field where it mired down tothe axles. The guy was so drunk he couldhardly walk. Really polluted! We incarcer-ated him and that was that.

In 1940, I was a member of the Patrol’sSafety Squadron, a group of 13 officerswho traveled throughout Missouri on mo-torcycles, promoting safe driving throughselective enforcement and public pro-grams. We had a white trailer with a snackbar and a place to rest inside, and a white1940 Ford Coupe to tow the trailer. It wasa good show that helped sell safety andthe Highway Patrol to the citizens. We’dgo to different cities on weekends, oneweek to St. Joseph, then to Springfield, St.Louis, and so on. But, World War II camealong and the squadron disbanded.

I was called to active duty and went tothe Philippines as a replacement for an-other officer; therefore, I found myselfthrown in with an outfit that I knew nothingabout. This had me worried for a while,because I wasn’t sure they could shootstraight or anything else, but it turned outOK. They were all from the Connecticutarea and were great guys. Ours was ahighway transportation division thatmoved supplies from the rear right up tothe front lines.

We were delivering supplies one dayabout 150 miles north of Manila when wemet another group from the 128th InfantryDivision. Guess who their supply officerwas—Percy Little! Talk about coinci-dences. I knew he was in that general the-ater of war, but had no idea I’d ever runinto him. Later, I spent some time with himwhile he served in Manila as a precinctcaptain for the military police.

Getting back to the subject of motor-cycles, I’ve taken a few spills on them—nothing serious, though. Around 1950, Iwas on a detail at Springfield where Presi-dent Harry S. Truman was to present aplaque honoring Simon Bolivar to thepresident of one of those South Americancountries. I gassed up my wheel andstarted for Springfield from Poplar Bluff inthe rain. Before I could get out of town Iwound up in some fellow’s front yard,

46

muddy, but unhurt. The headlight on mymotorcycle was broken, but I made it toSpringfield. Trooper Russell “Poodle”Breid had a minor accident on his cycleen route to the same assignment.

Our motorcycles were those bigHarley-Davison 74s—really good wheels.I saw some of the Troop E men on theirsthe other day. Those Kawasaki’s are nicelooking machines, but I hate to see thestate buying foreign-made products. I’mfunny, I guess, but I won’t buy anythingnot made in the United States. If I go intoa store and pick up a sweater that’s beenmanufactured in Korea or Taiwan, theycan keep it. We have a factory here inCape—Edwards Sporting Goods—thatmakes fine quality leather coats and otherequipment. They’ve been hurt terribly byforeign competition. That’s not right.

On the subject of dignitaries, I helpedescort Vice President Hubert Humphreyaround the Southeast Missouri areashortly before I retired. Several days be-fore Humphrey arrived, Secret Servicemen flew in and checked the routes oftravel, paying special attention to bridgesand overpasses where an assassin couldhide. I was impressed with their thorough-ness and the way they protected himwhen he arrived.

His Lear Jet landed at the Malden AirForce Base from which we escorted himto Dexter for a hospital dedication. Thenhe went to Poplar Bluff for a 10th DistrictDemocratic Rally. What a crowd therewas! Before boarding his plane he pre-sented each officer on the detail with a tie-pin and cuff links bearing the vicepresidential seal. We had an opportunityto talk with him during the visit; he was afine gentleman.

What I liked about working for the High-way Patrol was the variety of experiences.Every day you met new people with newideas, and there was always the elementof the unknown. Those things made the

job enjoyable. Sure, you met some peoplewho gave you trouble, but by and large,the majority were good people who coop-erated with you. My career spanned partsof five decades and I’ve seen a lot ofchanges. The world has changed a lotsince 1935, and law enforcement with it.Of course, there are the obvious differ-ences such as improvements in cars andcommunications, but the biggest change Isee is in people’s attitudes toward the po-lice. The respect for law and order isn’tthere anymore. People just don’t care. Isincerely believe that a trooper has amore dangerous job today than did hiscounterpart of 30 or 40 years ago. Youdon’t know who you’re stopping out thereon the road. An officer may be able tocheck a license wanted in a split secondwith the aid of computers, but he can’tpredict what a suspect will do. I was fortu-nate during my career; only a couple oftimes did I have a gun pulled on me andeach time I talked the man into handing itover.

Since retiring from the Patrol in 1970,I’ve been active in senior citizens’ work. Iwas a delegate to the Silver Haired Legis-lature in Jefferson City twice, where wemet and drafted bills to present to our lo-cal representative or senator for introduc-tion in the regular session of the GeneralAssembly.

Lt. Glenn W. Lampley, retired (1996).

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I’m most proud of the nutrition centeroperated by the Cape Girardeau CountyCouncil on Aging, of which I am chairman.The center provides a hot, balanced noonmeal for any citizen of 60 years or olderfree-of-charge. The program is federallyfunded and is one of the best governmentprojects going. Our center is housed in anold county farm building, donated by thecounty court and remodeled for ourneeds. All work is voluntary except for ourthree cooks. One of our big problems, auniversal one, is transportation to andfrom the center, but we managed to getpeople there and back home when theyneed a ride, and we also home-delivermeals to shut-ins.

Our nutrition center is one of the few inMissouri that operate seven days a week.Federal requirements mandate a five-daya week operation, but people get lone-some on weekends and the center pro-vides them a place to visit and play cards.We have excellent attendance on Satur-days and Sundays.

I’m also on the board of directors of theArea Agency on Aging, a group that meetsmonthly to approve funding for the 21 nu-trition centers in the 18-county Bootheelregion of Missouri.

I don’t work all the time, though. Eachyear our group sponsors a trip. I’ve trav-eled to Hawaii, Mexico City, Acapulco,Canada, Florida, the Bahamas, and ontwo Caribbean tours covering St. Thomas,Haiti, Santo Domingo, and Jamaica. Thisyear we’re planning a trip to Venezuela.Everyone enjoys these tours. They’re agreat way to make friends and advertiseyour organization ... and, believe me,there’s never a dull moment.

I take exercise every morning downthere in the basement to keep fit and Iwalk regularly. As far as I know, my healthis good. The secret to happiness is tokeep those wheels turning in your head —

that’s true for everybody, not just retiredpeople.”

(This interview took place in 1980. Re-tired Lt. Glenn W. Lampley died on May10, 1997, at the age of 88.)

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Known and revered for his nerve, intel-ligence, and driving skill, Pappy Dixevinces complete confidence in himself tohandle any situation. Indeed, as is shownin the following account, he has been in-volved in some dangerous ones.

“My making application for the Patrolwas sort of an accident, and even afterapplying, I almost didn’t take the examina-tion. It was 1937. I was physical educationdirector, coach, and acting principal atSouth Junior High School here in Joplin.The regular principal had suffered an ill-ness, which left him paralyzed in the lowerextremities, and I was filling in ... at no ex-tra salary. This was in Depression daysand teachers’ salaries were too low to liveon, so I worked anyplace I could. I playedsemipro baseball, refereed over 100 bas-ketball games a year, and sold clothes forJ.C. Penney in the summer.

A fellow teacher who had a brother-in-law on the Missouri Highway Patrol askedme why I didn’t join.

“Why, my Lord, I’m not big enough,” Isaid. I only weighed 140 pounds. All theexercise kept me trim, I guess.

“Well, will you fill out an application if Iget you one?” he asked. I did, and thatwas all I heard about that for a while.

That summer the WPA sponsored aprogram to build a playground system forthe children of Joplin. Their plans were touse the school grounds. The superinten-dent of schools agreed, but insisted onthe right to choose the director. I had thegood fortune to be chosen. In no time, wehad a good baseball program going.

ROY F. “PAPPY” DIX

A few weeks later, I attended a meetingin Jefferson City with recreational direc-tors from other Missouri cities to meet thenational director from New York and dis-cuss our individual programs. When I fin-ished my presentation, the nationaldirector stood up and in so many wordscalled me a liar. He just couldn’t believethat we had that many kids participating. Isaid, “Now Mr., what you just said may beOK in New York, but down here in Mis-souri, those are fighting words. I’m invitingyou to visit Joplin, and I’ll prove what I’vesaid is true.”

So, he came down the next day and Itook him around. I guess he liked what hesaw, because it was 11 o’clock that nightbefore he left. I was supposed to be backin Jefferson City at 8 o’clock the nextmorning to take the entrance examinationfor the Patrol.

My wife said, “You’re not going to takethat test?”

Tpr. Roy F. “Pappy” Dix.

49

“It’s too late,” I answered. “We’d haveto drive all the way up there (200 miles)and I wouldn’t get a bit of sleep.”

But, wouldn’t you know it, my little girlwas lying there in her baby bed—she wasjust big enough to talk—and she said,“Daddy, I want you to take the test.”

Well, that settled it. We took our daugh-ter to my wife’s mother and left forJefferson City. We arrived in time forbreakfast, and then I drove over to theCapitol building to take the examination. Iwas the 13th man in line for the physical.the 12 ahead of me were great big fel-lows. I said to myself, “Boy, you don’thave a chance.” But those guys ahead ofme were rejected for one reason or an-other, and before long I was first in line.

I asked one of the doctors, “Just whatare you guys looking for, anyway?”

He said, “Do you want the job?”

“Well, I’m here.”

“Stay in line.”

All I had to take was the eye examina-tion. I came back home and in a few daysreceived a letter telling me to report toCamp Crowder near Neosho on July 1 forrecruit training.

When I returned to Joplin after trainingthe superintendent of schools called me.“I understand you’ve taken a position withthe Highway Patrol,” he said. I confirmedthe fact. “I’ve got a better job for youhere,” he said.

“I’ve been here 10 years,” I told him,“and it’s the first time you’ve told me that.”I explained that I intended to take the Pa-trol job, but that if at some future date cir-cumstances changed and the job was stillopen in Joplin, I’d be glad to accept.

My first Patrol assignment was in TroopC at Kirkwood. I worked under Captain

T.L. Leigh (pronounced lay), a wonderfulman and fine commanding officer. My on-the-job training was with Trooper H.H.“Hub” Wells, a man I admired very much.He was a good policeman—one you couldlearn a lot from, but he had ways of doingthings that were his alone. If I’d tried towork like he did, I wouldn’t have lastedlong. He had this gift of talking to everyman in his own language—ex-convicts,bankers, preachers, you name it—and in-telligently, too.

I was still just riding and observingwhen we were called to investigate a mur-der. A man from Tennessee had beenfound dead near Flat River, so Wells and Imet Sergeant A.G. White at the funeralhome where an autopsy was being per-formed. White and Wells didn’t want towatch it, and neither did I, but they toldme to stay there while they went to thecrime scene. Afterwards, I drove out tomeet them in the car they’d left me, butwhen I arrived, no one was there. I drovearound awhile and finally spied the patrolcar parked behind a service station.

“Where have you been?” asked Wells.

“Looking for you,” I said.

“Why, we were right here when youdrove by the first time,” he said. “You wantto always observe both sides of the roadas well as what’s ahead and behind,” hewent on. “That way you won’t miss any-thing.”

I remembered that, and throughout mycareer I practiced it. I didn’t miss much,especially cars parked behind service sta-tions!

Back then we didn’t have two-way ra-dios in our cars. Instead, they wereequipped with short wave sets tuned tostation KIUK in Jefferson City, which wassupposed to relay messages from the

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troop headquarters. Once in a great whileyou could hear it. The best communica-tions network going was the telephonecontact system. Our headquarters wouldcall specified filling stations or restaurantsalong the highways and the proprietorswould relay orders to you when youstopped by. This worked fine if there werea number of contact points, but in thesparsely populated areas, you can seethat the system wasn’t too efficient: Con-tact points might be many miles apart.

I first patrolled by myself on St. CharlesRock Road in the city of St. Charles. Ev-ery municipality had its deputy constables.These guys, donkeys we called them,were out prowling the roads and victimiz-ing motorists on trumped-up charges.They would check a registration number,find one from out-of-town, and pull the carover. Then they’d tell the driver he’d vio-lated a traffic law and that he’d have tospend the night in jail—unless the driverwanted to settle it there on the highway.What could the fellow do, but pay up? Ofcourse, those “officers” and the justices ofthe peace were in cahoots. No doubt theysplit the money. They had quite a racketgoing.

This was wrong and I did what I couldto stop it. Whenever I’d see one of thosefellows pull a car over, I’d stop behind himand sit there until he was through. He’dcome back in a fluster and ask, “You wantsomething?”

I’d say, “No, I saw you stop that car andthey looked dangerous, so I was justbacking you up.” Usually, it would be aman and his family.

When the donkey had left, I’d stop thevictims and talk to them. “Brother, yousaved us a lot of trouble back there,”they’d say. “That character was about toarrest us when you showed up.”

I was out driving my personal car onenight and I got stopped. The cop half rec-ognized me, I think, but when I handed

him my driver’s license that gave Joplin asmy residence, it threw him for a loop.

He said, “What do youse do for a liv-ing?”

“I work for the state.”

His brow wrinkled, “Is you a patrol-man?”

I said I was.

“Well, why didn’t you say so? We wantto get along with youse guys.”

“We can get along fine,” I said. “You’veseen my license, now let me see yours.” Ifhe hadn’t had one, I was going to arresthim right there.

That situation has been resolved nowwith the elimination of the justices of thepeace, and a good thing, too.

One of the first nights I worked alone Icame upon a drunk driver. He livedaround Creve Coeur Lake—a lot of hood-lums had settled there—and he decidedhe was going to whip me when I told himto get out of the car. He didn’t get the jobdone, and after I subdued him, I took himto the courthouse in Clayton before thejustice of the peace.

When the justice read the charge, thedrunk jumped him. I had to dive in themiddle of it and thump the drunk again.

It seemed like the right thing to do atthe time, but that was one of the biggestmistakes of my life. When I came to courtto testify on the case, the justice said, “Doyou have a case here today?” I remindedhim of the drunk I had dragged off of hima couple of weeks earlier. He said, “Thatcase has been heard already. We finedhim four dollars plus 70 cents court costs.”I truly had made a mistake. If I’d let thatdrunk pummel that old justice a little, thefellow wouldn’t have got off so lightly, and

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maybe that prosecution would have im-proved generally in that court.

A few months later my patrol route waschanged from St. Charles Rock Road toU.S. Highway 66. Trooper Charlie Boschand I stopped a car with Oklahoma li-cense plates one night. As I walked up onthe car I saw there were two occupants,the driver and a man lying down in theback seat.

“What’s the matter with your friend?” Iasked the driver.

“Oh, he’s asleep,” he said.

“That’s the first time I ever saw any-body sleep and bat his eyes,” I said. Then,I told the guy in the back, “You get up realcareful, friend.” He was lying on a loadedgun. These men had stolen the car froman Oklahoma family and driven to Illinoiswhere they’d shot a fellow over a crapgame. The Illinois authorities picked themup the next day.

Eight years later I received a subpoenafrom Oklahoma City to testify in the case.Now, I’d only seen those fellows one nightand about all I remembered was that onewas tall and the other was short, and thatboth had heavy heads of hair. Of course, Iwould be called on to identify them underoath. Their file contained no pictures, soall I could do was match their names withtheir descriptions.

In court they brought out eight prison-ers, all dressed alike. Six of them weretanned and two had prison pallor. Thesepale ones had to be the fellows who haddone the shooting, so I identified them byname and their lawyer pled them guilty.

Afterward, the defense attorneystopped me in the hall. “I’d like to buy yourdinner,” he said. I’ve never turned down afree meal in my life, so I joined him.

“That’s remarkable that you could re-member those men after eight years,” he

told me over the dinner table. “And, notonly did you recall their faces, but youknew each one’s name, too. It’s really re-markable.”

I didn’t dare tell him my secret.

On November 10, 1939, I transferred toTroop D. I drove to the troop headquartersin Springfield to pick up Trooper H.P.Bruner, who had just joined the Patrol. Wewere to be stationed in Neosho, the firsttroopers to ever live there. The troop com-mander, Captain Reed, told me, “Now,Dix, you’re going to find that half the carsin McDonald County are not licensed, butthere’s nothing you can do about it. Wejust can’t get any prosecution on thischarge.”

“Nothing” is a broad assumption. Thisproblem was a challenge to me and I re-solved to meet it. The first day on the roadwe arrested a man for having no licenseplates. Captain Reed looked at the ticketand smiled. “It won’t do you any good,” herepeated. He was right; the fellow wasgone from the courthouse before wewere.

But, you know, we did find a way toforce those people to buy license plates. Iguess I can tell it now after 40 years.Bruner and I reasoned that if a car had nolicense plate, the driver had no right todrive it. McDonald County is very hilly.When we’d stop somebody, we’d alwaysmake sure it was on an upgrade. We’dmake him hoof it home and leave the car.Emergency brakes weren’t too good inthose days and when the driver returnedto get the car, he’d usually find it hadrolled into the ditch and he’d have to findsomebody to pull it out.

Several months passed and CaptainReed came down to ride and talk with meon my shift. We drove McDonald Countyhighways a whole day and didn’t see one

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car without a license plate. “OK,” he said,“how’d you do it?”

“Captain, it’s a long story and I’d rathernot relate it,” I said. He never mentioned itagain.

I remember a murder I investigated acouple of years after that. Bruner was inthe armed services, and I was the only of-ficer stationed in Neosho. In the town ofNoel, a man named Butch Price had shothis girlfriend dead with a shotgun as sheand her father walked to their home. Wit-nesses said Price had a pistol as well asthe shotgun, and that he was afoot some-where in the little town.

There were constables, marshals, asheriff, and every other kind of jackleglawman present—along with a crowd oftownspeople, some of whom had fortifiedthemselves with liquid courage for thecoming manhunt.

The sheriff sidled up to me. “You gotany ammunition?” he asked.

“Why, sure,” I said.

“Give me some. I only got two shells inmy gun.” I gave him four.

The search began, me in the lead, withthe posse strung out behind. A woman re-lated to Price said he might be in herhouse. When we arrived, I told the sheriff,“You take the back door and I’ll take thefront. We’ll go in and get him.” I chargedthrough, found nothing, and went out theback. There stood the sheriff, still watch-ing the door.

Price’s brother was in the crowd. “Ithink he’s in my house,” he said.

As we walked to the house, I couldhear this character behind me repeatingover and over, “State trooper, you’re goingto get killed, you’re going to get killed.” Iglanced over my shoulder and saw thathe had a pistol pointed right at my back.

“Not by you,” I said. I grabbed the gunand threw it as far as I could.

“You oughn’t to have done that,” said aconstable in the crowd. “That was mypiece you threw away.”

“Well, you should have kept it if it wasyours,” I told him, “and not loaned it to adrunk.”

The house showed no lights. Both thefront and back doors were locked. Mycommand to come out was met by si-lence.

“I know Butch is in there,” said thebrother.

“Do you have a key to the doors?” Iasked.

“No.”

“I’ll break the back door down,” I said,“and one of you follow me in.” A deputyconstable said he’d be right behind me.

I backed off a few steps, took a shortrun, and kicked the lathe door off thehinges. The owner of the house had ne-glected to tell me about the meat curingon several sawhorses just inside. Wewore knee-high boots then, and it was agood thing, because I hit those sawhorsesfull speed, and the meat and I turnedsomersault and fetched up against the op-posite wall. I was unhurt. I thought, Lord, ifhe’s in here, he’ll kill that constable forsure. But, I needn’t have worried. ButchPrice wasn’t in the room and neither wasthe deputy. He’d stayed outside.

I went through an interior door verycarefully and saw an open staircase lead-ing to the attic. I put my hat on a broom-stick and began stomping up the steps,hoping—for the only time in my life—that

53

Price would fire at the hat. No shots rangout as the hat cleared the open doorway. Ieased my way up and shined my flash-light around the attic. It was empty.

Then a thought occurred to me. “Wheredoes he live anyway?”

“Oh, about a block from here,” said thecity marshal. “But it’ll do no good, be-cause I’ve done checked the home.”

“Did you go inside?” I asked.

“No.”

“Well, he’s probably in there,” I de-cided. So, the posse trooped over toButch Price’s home, a one story, woodenaffair with only four rooms.

“How you gonna get him out?” ques-tioned the city marshal.

I’d had enough of breaking down doorsfor one night, so I said, loudly, so Butchcould hear me if he was inside, “I’m goingto burn the house down and kill him whenhe comes running out.” Of course, I’dnever have done it.

Butch was under the foundation. Whenhe heard that, he yelled, “Don’t kill me. I’mcoming, I’m coming!”

“Listen very carefully,” I said. “Throwout your shotgun and pistol, and crawl outslowly.”

I got behind a corner of the foundationwhere he couldn’t shoot me and prettysoon out came the weapons, followed byButch Price. I jumped on his back andhandcuffed him after a brief struggle. Istood up and looked around. He and Iwere the only human beings in sight. My“help” had found other things to do.

I walked to the jail with my prisoner.Standing outside was the posse, looking

brave again. One fellow said, “Trooper,you better get that guy out of town beforewe hang him.”

I said, “There’s not enough guts in thistown to take this man away from me. Youguys could have apprehended him your-selves before I got here if you’d reallywanted to.”

I took Butch to jail in Pineville and toldthe prosecuting attorney, who had as-sisted in the manhunt, “You lock him upand don’t let anybody talk to him until to-morrow when I come back over to finger-print him.” I was overstepping myauthority plenty, but he did just as I asked.Somebody told me later that the prosecu-tor, W.T. Tracy, who hated the Patrol, con-fided in him that, “By God, I’ve finallyfound something those sons of bitchesare good for. That Dix is the meanest manI ever saw in my life.”

A few days later, the phone rang at myhome. It was the sheriff’s wife in Pineville.“Come quick!” she said. “Butch Price hasgone crazy. He’s got a big stick of woodand he’s threatening to kill all the otherprisoners!”

“Where’s the sheriff?”

“He went to Arkansas. Please hurry!”

I drove to Pineville, picked up the jailkeys from the sheriff’s wife at her home,and went to the jail. It was built of con-crete blocks with a heating stove in themiddle and a bank of cells on one end.They usually just locked the outer doorand let the prisoners roam inside, butsometimes they’d lock them in the cells.

“I’m going in there,” I told the olddeputy, who accompanied me. “You takemy revolver and lock the outer door. Re-gardless of what happens, don’t open thatdoor.”

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I entered the place and saw Pricestanding there with a big piece of stovewood. The other prisoners had fled to thecells, where they perched on the topbunks like a row of hoot owls.

Butch threw down the wood and ran toa cell. “If you come in here, I’ll cut you!” hethreatened.

All he had was a razor blade. “Butch,” Isaid, “I’ve come down here to take you toNeosho. If you spill one drop of blood, I’llstomp you to death!”

I jumped inside and pinned his armagainst the edge of a steel bunk. “Drop it,Butch,” I said.

“I can’t.”

I repeated the command twice and hestill insisted he couldn’t drop the blade. Ieased up a little and the blade fell to thefloor. I had exerted so much pressure onhis arm muscles, he couldn’t open hishand. He settled down enough that I couldhandcuff him and take him to Neosho.

The following summer, the McDonaldCounty sheriff called me and said a manhad been found dead in a house. Foulplay was suspected. I figured the investi-gation might be a little messy, so I woreold civilian clothes, rather than my uni-form. Thank God I did, because the victimhad been ripening in that house four daysin the summer heat. Dead chickens layabout the yard. Even outside, the stenchof decay would knock you over.

“Hello, Dix,” said the sheriff. “Do youwant a drink?”

I considered his offer, then declined.

“Well, you’re gonna need one whenyou go in that house.”

When I opened the door, I realizedwhat he meant. Four law officers wereright behind me and they pitched theircookies right then and there. I would’vetoo, but nothing would come up.

Nauseating as it was, I had to investi-gate the death and gather evidence if pos-sible. The man lay on the floor, his headsmashed to a pulp. In his death throes hehad vomited and defecated. I found a car-ton of arsenic and collected some of thespoiled food on the dinner table, thinking itwas probably poisoned.

After being in there for what seemedlike hours, the sheriff and I came backoutside. Noticing he was still a little green,I said, “Sheriff, you need a drink!” Hestaggered over to a little apple tree therein the yard and heaved all over again.“Oh, God, I’m sick,” he moaned.

I drove home, burned my clothes, tooksix showers, and began making some in-quiries into the crime. The crime lab atJefferson City later confirmed that the vic-tim, Johnny Branson, had consumedenough arsenic with his food to kill a herdof elephants—he’d been beaten for goodmeasure.

We caught the murderers a short timelater, two locals, an old guy (I’ve forgottenhis name), and his girlfriend, Good-ToothAnnie. Funny thing about Annie, she’d ad-mit to the murder, then deny everything. Icouldn’t get a written statement, and allwe had was circumstantial evidence, be-cause the boyfriend wouldn’t talk.

On the way to the coroner’s inquest, Itold her, “Now, Annie, this is your day.You’re going to get up in front of thecoroner’s jury and tell your story. You’ll beunder oath, so you’ll have to tell the truth.”Wouldn’t you know it, the old gal got upthere and told everything down to the lastdetail. The motive for the murder wasmerely to get Branson out of the way sothey could live in the house.

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On the subject of murder, I rememberanother sordid one. In fact the detailswere more disgusting than the one I justtold about. I had completed my investiga-tion and was sitting in the sheriff’s office atCarthage typing my report. My typing wasawful—hunt, peck, erase, you know how itgoes. The circuit judge’s young wifewalked up, observed my ineptness, andasked, “Can I type that for you?”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t think of letting youtype this. Thank you, but there are wordsin this report that you shouldn’t see.”

That woman raised such a fuss that Ifinally relented and gave it to her to type.Serves her right, I thought.

She came back the next morning withthat report typed beautifully. With a twinklein her eye, she said, “If you get any moreof these, would you call me?”

When the second World War ended,Trooper John Rick was assigned toNeosho. He told Colonel Hugh Waggonerthat he’d like to go where it was peacefuland quiet, so he sent him down to workwith me. The Army base, Camp Crowder,was still there. You know how peaceful65,000 servicemen can be. The first eightdays, we caught nine car thieves andmade five other felony arrests. On theninth day during a lull, we were sitting inthe zone office at Carthage typing allthose reports.

Rick would peck away awhile and thenlook at that mountain of work to be done.Finally, he pushed his chair back and said,“I thought it was supposed to be quietdown here.”

“Why, Rick,” I said, “You can’t expect itto be this quiet all the time.”

I used to pride myself on my driving.No violator ever outran me. If I saw histaillights, he was caught. Reflecting back,I realize that I took some unnecessary

chances, but I wasn’t about to let anybodyget away.

John Rick and I were called to a rob-bery in progress one night near the Mis-souri-Arkansas line. Highway 88, awinding, narrow road was the most directroute to the scene. I’d traveled the roaddozens of time at high speeds, so I knewall of its twists and turns. I pushed the gasto the floor when I could, and we fairlyflew around the curves. A hill would comerushing up in the headlights and aroundand down we’d go. I glanced over at John.He was sitting there, loose and easy.“Don’t hurt to scare me. I’ve been scaredlots of times.” he grunted.

Bravado, I thought, but I found out laterthat he’d been a PT boat commander inWorld War II. I guess my driving was noth-ing to what he’d faced in the Pacific.

I transferred to Mexico, Missouri, onMarch 15, 1948. At that time things werepretty wild in that town. One night the citypolice called Trooper T.D. “Tillie” Cameronand I for assistance at a disturbance at atavern in a predominantly black section oftown. None of their white officers wouldgo, so they’d sent their only black officer.Richard Johnson, to try to break it up, withno success.

When we arrived, the din was terrific.Several of the patrons were taking the tav-ern and each other apart. With shotgunsin hand, Tillie and I went in. “Everybodyup against the wall!” we commanded.They quieted down quickly and did asthey were told. You could hear knives,brass knuckles, razors, and all manner ofweapons hitting the floor. We arrested twoor three and took them to jail.

Later, one of the Mexico policemenasked Johnson, the black officer, if we’dbeen any help to him. “Help?” he said.“Why, when them troopers came in there,it got so quiet, you could have heard agnat scratchin’ his backside!”

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As I said at the beginning, my back-ground was in teaching. I was privilegedto instruct Patrol officers from 1946 to1961. I was never a regular faculty mem-ber, but was called in to teach pursuit driv-ing, interrogation and interviewing, busand truck law, and a few other specializedcourses.

I was 56 when I retired from the Patrol.I probably could have worked four moreyears, but I was afraid that if I waited untilI reached 60, I wouldn’t be able to get ateaching job. That hasn’t proved exactlytrue. I returned to Joplin to teach biologyat Parkwood High School. After a yearand a half, I switched to drivers’ educa-tion, which I taught for several years. Ilater served as dean of men until I was65, the compulsory retirement age forsecondary school teachers. I still remem-ber the standing ovation and gifts I re-ceived at the last assembly. I’m not surewhether they were praising me or just re-lieved to see me go.

But, I wasn’t through teaching. Thedean of Missouri Southern State Collegein Joplin asked me if I’d instruct in law en-forcement courses. I was there for fiveyears. After age 70, you aren’t allowed toteach full-time anymore, so now I just fillin when they need somebody to take asubject that nobody else wants to teach.I’m permitted to work 360 hours a yearand I enjoy every minute in the classroom.I also teach defensive driving two Satur-days a month to traffic offenders, mostlyyoung folks.

I like people. That’s essential both inlaw enforcement and teaching. I often givemy classes a little personal philosophy,and the essence of it is this: Always ap-proach everybody with a smile on yourface, no matter what the circumstances.Remember that, and it’ll save you a lot oftrouble.

When an officer stops a driver for a vio-lation, he should remember that the per-

son violated the law, not the officer’shonor. I never gave any man a tongue-lashing. The easiest way to make an ar-rest is to tell the person what he didwrong, answer his questions cheerfully,and write the ticket if he deserves it.Above all, don’t argue; if you do, you’ll justmake two people mad.

I have always respected law officers,but I expected no favors from any officer,nor should they have expected any fromme. I’ve arrested circuit judges, prosecu-tors, sheriffs, and city police officers. Theywere either right or wrong. This might befrowned on in some circles, but that wasthe only way I could be just with myselfand everyone else. I always said: Temperyour justice with mercy, but for goodness’sake, don’t be too merciful.”

(This interview took place in 1980. Re-tired Sergeant Pappy Dix died June 11,1983. He was 78 years old.)

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A native of Southeast Missouri, HerbWickham spent most of his 29 years withthe Patrol stationed there, serving in Jack-son, Sikeston, Hayti, Malden, and PoplarBluff. In 1959, he transferred to Spring-field and retired with the rank of lieutenantin 1966. Veteran of many shooting inci-dents, and wild car chases, he recountssome of his most memorable here.

“I’d have to say that my first 20 yearson the Patrol were my happiest. I spentthem here in Southeast Missouri. Sure, Igrew up here, but that wasn’t the only rea-son I liked it. I always preferred criminalwork to traffic enforcement. Chasingspeeders and standing out on the highwayfreezing your tail off at an accident scenenever appealed to me. I’ve always consid-ered catching criminals to be real policework, and we had plenty of that in South-east Missouri.

Cooperation was always excellent be-tween our department and the sheriffs,too, and that can make your job a lot moresatisfying and productive. I’ve encouragedseveral boys to join the Patrol, and somehave returned to the Southeast to work,but others haven’t wanted to return. I don’tunderstand it. This is the best place in thestate to start a career in law enforcement.

I broke in with the best criminal investi-gator in this part of the country, PercyLittle. Why, he’d rather investigate crimesthan eat when he was hungry. In fact, wewent on slim rations a lot of days—cheeseand crackers for 14 hours while we trailedhog thieves, chicken thieves, cattlethieves, burglars, robbers, and an occa-sional murderer. Percy was sharp and hehad connections with police officers every-where, knew ‘em all—city police, railroad

HERBERT F. WICKHAM

detectives, FBI agents, sheriffs—and heknew how to work with them, too.

We had some unusual cases. Back inthe late ‘30s there was an old fellow downin Bollinger County called “Peg” who wasa counterfeiter—a small-time counter-feiter. He made quarters! Three of ustroopers, Little, Glenn Lampley, and I, sur-prised him in bed one night. We had himdead to rights; his counterfeiting appara-tus was right there in plain sight. Peg wasup in years and didn’t put up any struggle;consequently, we let our guard down. Allof a sudden I heard Lampley say, “Hey,Hey! What are you doin’?”

Old Peg had hopped up on his bed andwas rummaging around on a shelf aboveit. Glenn wrestled him down and held himwhile Percy and I checked the shelf. Thatold rascal had a loaded pistol up there.There would have been trouble if Lampleyhadn’t seen him.

One time—this would have been about1938—Percy got word that a couple ofsafecrackers were holed up in a house-

Herbert F. Wickham, early in his career.

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boat on the Mississippi River, north ofCape Girardeau. These guys had pulledjobs all over southern Illinois and South-eastern Missouri. Little, Lampley, and Idrove down there early one morning be-fore sunrise. We wore khakis, so as not toarouse suspicion.

The houseboat was anchored severalfeet offshore. A plank stretched from thebank to the bow of the boat. Lampley re-mained on shore armed with his shotgun,acting as rear guard if we ran into trouble.Percy and I would enter the boat and at-tempt to surprise the criminals.

That plank we had to cross was notvery wide, maybe eight inches, and nottoo thick, two inches at most, and I madethe mistake of letting Percy go first. Heweighed at least 230 pounds. He gotacross OK, but when he jumped into theboat, I was in the middle of the board. Imust have catapulted three feet in the air.I came down and hugged that plank fordear life. It finally stopped bouncing and Igot to my feet and followed Little onto theboat.

The living quarters consisted of twocompartments, one behind the other. Thedoor was unlocked. As we went into thefirst room, we saw one of the guys asleepon a bunk. He stirred and mumbled as wecame in. Percy reached for the revolver inthe pocket of his khakis and commanded:“Get—! Get your—! Get your hands—!”His voice faltered as the hammer caughtand he couldn’t get his revolver out. Heyanked a couple more times unsuccess-fully.

“Get your hands up, or I’ll blow yourhead off!” he thundered, pistol still in hispocket. The old boy in the bed’s eyespopped open. “I give up! I give up!” hecried.

We handcuffed him, confiscated the re-volver under his pillow, and went on to thesecond compartment. The other safe-cracker was still asleep in bed, so we hadno problem with him. These arrests

cleared up about 35 safe burglaries androbberies in that area of the country.

When I remember that incident I al-ways think how lucky I was. I might havedrowned in the Mississippi when Percyjumped off that plank!

I never worked with two finer men thanGlenn Lampley and Percy Little. It’s a pitythat you couldn’t have interviewed Percybefore he passed away last year. Hecould have told you some stories thatwould have raised your hackles.

My interest in police work commencedearly in life, for my father was a police-man; in fact he was a police chief here inCape Girardeau for several years beforehis death in 1931. While attending South-east Missouri State College, I used to ac-company Sheriff Adam Hoffman when hetransported prisoners to the state peniten-tiary in Jefferson City. Hoffman was one ofthe best sheriffs I ever met. He later tooka position with the federal government.

I became interested in joining the Pa-trol in 1935, but when I learned that fivefeet, eight inches was the minimum heightfor troopers, I decided I had no chance,because I stood only five-seven andthree-quarters. In 1936, I was serving aschief of police here in Cape, like my fatherbefore me. I met two troopers, CaptainBob Moore and Trooper Warren Wallis. Icouldn’t believe my eyes. Those guyswere a lot shorter than I was. I thought,what the hell, I’m tall enough to make it.

In 1937, I applied and by stretching alittle, even passed the height regulation.Of course, they measured you with a rulerlaid across your head and it wasn’t hard togain a quarter of an inch by elevating yourforehead slightly. I passed the remainingtests and was accepted. I found out laterthat Moore and Wallis had secured waiv-ers for the height requirement.

Following a four-week training courseat Camp Clark near Nevada and a shortbreak-in period, I was assigned to Jack-son. I was the first trooper to be stationed

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there. I believe the reason I was sent toJackson was the dangerous intersectionof old U.S. 61 and Missouri 25, east oftown.

I transferred to Sikeston in 1939, work-ing under Sergeant Melvin Dace. Therewere two other troopers in the zone be-side myself—John Tandy and VincentBoisaubin.

Then came World War II. I entered thearmy October 4, 1940, and after battalioncommand and staff officers’ school in FortBenning, Georgia, I was sent to LittleRock, Arkansas, as intelligence officer formy regiment. But I couldn’t cut it—wasn’tintelligent enough, I guess—and finallywound up overseas with the 70th InfantryDivision as a captain. I was promoted tomajor on my 38th birthday. I served inGermany, France, Luxembourg, Belgium,and Holland, returning home just afterChristmas in 1945. I had accrued leavetime until March 9, 1946, but I craved ac-tivity and wanted to return to the Patrol.

They re-examined me, pronounced mefit, and assigned me to Hayti. That wasquite a place. I was the only patrolmanthere and had to handle all the work inPemiscot County and part of DunklinCounty. Bennie Graham, stationed atKennett, was the only other trooper in thearea.

There hadn’t been a trooper in Hayti forfour years, and those people had grownaccustomed to living without us. A lot ofthem liked it that way. They’d gone sodamned long without much law enforce-ment, they decided they’d drive me out. Iwas forced off the road in my patrol carfour times in the first week I was there.Every time I made an arrest, I had to fightsomebody.

We’d stopped wearing the long bootsand breeches with the blackjack pocket,and I didn’t want to walk up on everybodywith my gun drawn, so at night when I hadto carry a flashlight anyway, I used it as ablackjack. I wore out so many flashlights

conking those characters that CaptainWallis said I’d have to replace the nextone I broke.

In the nick of time they sent some as-sistance. Harold Schmitt, now a major atGeneral Headquarters, was the first man,and he was wonderful help. He learnedfast. Harold married a beautiful girl downthere, but they didn’t stay long. He hatedthe town and the working conditions.There was an average of one violentdeath each week in the Pemiscot andDunklin County area, resulting from trafficaccidents and shooting and stabbings. Icouldn’t blame him for the way he felt; Ididn’t like a lot of the people either, but af-ter I’d been there awhile, I sort of got usedto it. After Harold Schmitt came JeffHickman, Ed Kelsey, and Norman Tinnin,all good men.

In 1950, I was promoted to sergeant incharge of the Bootheel zone. The crazypart was, they sent me to Malden by my-self! None of my men lived close to me.The Patrol did some strange things inthose days. Malden was the worst place Iever lived. Thank God for the driver li-cense examination program that began in1952. It enabled me to move to PoplarBluff as supervisor of the examiners inTroop E.

I held that position ‘til 1957, when to mysurprise, I was promoted to lieutenant incharge of enforcement for Troop E. Myfirst duty, though, was to go to JeffersonCity to collaborate with Sergeant J.C.Smith in rewriting the Highway Patrol Op-erations Manual. At the time, we had thislittle manual, only about 1/2 inch thick—that’s all you really need—but, J.C. and Imade a three months’ job of it and pro-duced this voluminous thing about fivetimes as thick as the old one. We had alot of fun writing it. Cost the state a lot ofmoney, no doubt.

In 1959, J.C., George Kahler, JackInman, and I attended the Southern PoliceInstitute in Louisville, Kentucky. When I

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got back, to my sorrow, I was transferredto Troop D, Springfield. The transfermeant a substantial loss of money for me,because I was a colonel in the NationalGuard in command of the Second BattleGroup, which had its headquarters in Pop-lar Bluff. If I left, I knew they’d ask me toretire from the Guard. Captain O.L. Wallisof Troop E did all he could to get the colo-nel to change his decision, but it stood,and I went to Springfield. You know,though, it wasn’t too bad after all. I had agreat bunch of men working under me. Ireally put ‘em to work! One of my bestbuddies over there was Sergeant Warren“Shorty” Wallis, Captain Wallis’s brother.Both of them were characters. I’d say O.L.was a little more serious than Shorty, butnot much.

I was amazed at the lack of coopera-tion between the sheriffs and the Patrol inTroop D. There were two exceptions,Glenn Hendrix in Greene County andGeorge Hickham in Jasper County, butthe rest didn’t want anything to do with us.In Troop E I’d always enjoyed a very closeworking relationship with the sheriffs’ de-partments. That’s the only way you’re go-ing to achieve any positive results infighting crime.

It was during the Springfield tour that Igot shot. Oh, I’ve been shot at severaltimes, but this was the only time I wasever hit.

The chain of events started on Novem-ber 20, 1961, when a man named BillJenkins kidnapped Norwood Speight, thepresident of the White River Valley Elec-tric Company in Branson. Jenkins lived ona bluff above Lake Taneycomo. He andthe power company had been squabblingover the company’s failure to provide elec-tricity to the home, and Jenkins finallywent off his rocker. He abducted Speightat gunpoint and took him out to the woodsnear Jenkins’ home and forced him to cutdown a tree. “Just wanted to prove to youthat you can do it,” announced Jenkins.

Evidently one of the company’s objectionsto running electricity to the home was themany trees, which would have to be felledto install lines.

Jenkins returned Speight to Branson,and Speight immediately went to the po-lice. Meanwhile Bill Jenkins returned tohis home, sent his wife and children away,and barricaded himself inside with severalrifles, shotguns, and pistols, and a size-able quantity of ammunition.

It was the afternoon of November 21before we could assemble our “taskforce,” such as it was, composed of sev-eral state troopers, the Taney Countysheriff and his deputies, and some citymarshals. We even borrowed an armoredcar from the Larimore Company in Spring-field. The plan was to send in foot patrolsand surround the place. Then, we’d drivethe armored car right up to the house andfire tear gas shells through the windows,after which the patrols would move in andcapture Jenkins.

What appeared to be a sound planturned into a fiasco. First, the weatherplayed a hand. A driving rainstorm set in,making the road muddy, and the armoredcar became stuck before it got anywherenear the house. A deputy sheriff who knewJenkins tried to talk him into coming out,but he refused. We had several portablefloodlights with us, and Sheriff Wade de-cided we’d illuminate the house with thoseand try to fire gas shells from on foot.Lieutenant J.C. Smith and I were opposedto this because the lights would only pro-vide Jenkins with targets. Our whole planhad been predicated on the use of the ar-mored car and we’d lost it. Besides wehad only three gas shells. But, the sheriffprevailed and on a given signal the lightscame on.

I was on the west side of the houseand the first shot Jenkins fired struck mein the right hand, breaking my thumb andinjuring my index finger and wrist. I yelledto J.C. that I’d been hit. He fired his gas

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gun but his aim was high. The shot clearedthe roof by a comfortable margin. His sec-ond shot hit just underneath a window.

I was out in the open wearing one ofthose damned yellow raincoats and I de-cided to make a hasty withdrawal. I wasrunning for cover when I came to a fallentree. I tried to jump over it, but only made itpart of the way and got caught. Jenkins letme have it again and he hit the last part go-ing out the gate, as they say. A deputy wascarrying the third gas shell. He tossed it to-ward J.C. Smith, but it hit a rock and rolledup by the house. where Jenkins peppered itwith buckshot.

Jenkins crossed to the other side of thehouse and fired at the officers over there.we heard Sheriff Wade yell, “I’m hit! Helpme!” No serious damage was done, but Iimagine those buckshot restricted his sexlife for a few weeks.

We withdrew temporarily, then re-grouped and went back in the followingmorning, accompanied by armored recon-naissance cars and a detail of nationalguardsmen. We fired gas shells into thehouse, but it had little effect on Jenkins,who ran from window to window blastingaway at everything that moved. There waslittle more we could do but return his fire.After a few minutes the shots from thehouse ceased. We found Jenkins dead in-side.

It was a shame it had to end that way.People who knew the man said he was aheck of a nice fellow before his mind startedto go.

The first shooting scrape I had occurredMarch 9, 1940. Two boys from Memphis,Tennessee, had been stealing expensivecars from parking lots and driving themnorth to Chicago, where a brother of one ofthem worked as a captain of bellhops at abig hotel. The three would alter the identifi-cation numbers and change the appear-ance of the cars by repainting or adding trimand then selling them.

On this particular night, the two camenorth in a stolen car that played out on themon South Spring Street on Toll Gate Hill inCape Girardeau. They walked to the busi-ness district and there in the alley by theOrpheum Theater they found a brand newOldsmobile with the keys in it. It belonged toa car salesman named Crites. They tookthe car and headed back south for somereason.

I’d been alerted by Troop E radio aboutthe theft, and when the car came by myparking spot I wheeled that old Chevy in be-hind them. I’d never have caught them ifthey hadn’t been slowed by show trafficleaving Lilbourn a couple of miles south ofNew Madrid. As I drew close, the kid ridingon the right-hand side started shooting atme. One of the bullets shattered the leftventilator window. I swung the car out to theleft and behind them and took a shot of myown. The bullet went through the back glassand hit the driver. They skidded off the roadand into the ditch. I slid to a halt, jumpedout, and waded through waist-deep water toget them out.

Later the doctor in New Madrid exam-ined the boy I’d shot. “You’ve shot himtwice.” he said.

“Can’t be,” I said. “I only fired one shot.”

“Well, by God, look here. There’s twoholes.”

Lt. Herbert F. Wickham, 1962.

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He was right. Then he probed for theslugs and we discovered the answer tothe mystery. When that bullet hit the backwindow of the car, it split on the isinglass.Half of it lodged against his spine, and theother half stuck in his neck just under theskin. I still have those pieces of leadsomewhere around here in the house.That boy took infection in those woundsand nearly died. Dr. Seibert at Jacksonoperated and found a piece of the boy’sshirt embedded in the back wound.

A few months later I received a letterfrom the boy, who had made a full recov-ery. He said he appreciated what I’d done,because it set him on the straight and nar-row, that I’d taught him a lesson. That’s arough way to learn.

I recall another adventure that occurredin the late 1940s. Howard Turnbull, wholater became director of Revenue, wasthen a trooper working in Troop G, WillowSprings. His sister, who lived in Flat River,had her car stolen one night. I was sittingin my patrol car in New Madrid at thesame spot where the previous chase be-gan, when I received a radio report of thetheft. I copied the vehicle description andlicense number, closed my notebook, andlooked up to see a car going south onHighway 61 that matched the descriptionof the stolen one. I flicked my spotlight onthe license and saw that the last three dig-its matched the report. I started after thecar.

When the thief saw the red light, hesped up, and the chase was on. I tried topull up beside him, but he weaved overand tried to force me off the road. We keptgoing for 15 miles like that ‘til we reachedPemiscot County. Just over the line heslowed for traffic. I goosed it and gotalongside him. He whipped the car overtoward me again, trying to ditch me.

I could see there was only one way tostop him, so I drew my pistol and aimedthrough the open right-hand window of mycar. I fired and hit him in the head, but the

bullet didn’t penetrate his skull. It ploweda groove around the left side and back ofhis head. It didn’t kill him, but it knockedhim sillier ’n hell! His car went off the rightshoulder and came to rest in the ditch. Ijumped out, laid him on his belly, andhandcuffed him. A friend of mine fromPortageville happened by and helped di-rect traffic.

At the Portageville jail the thief, ayoung black man of 20, proceeded to tellme his rights. He knew ‘em all. Then, hetold a hairy tale. It seems he’d been heldin slavery in the state of Mississippi underthe most brutal of conditions. It was a truestory, evidently, because the FBI were af-ter the people who’d mistreated him.

The story hit the papers in a big way. Iremember the piece in the St. LouisGlobe-Democrat, quite sympathetic to thefellow. Well, now, he may have beentreated cruelly, but he was trying to kill meout there with that car, so I didn’t feel toosorry for him. And to top it all off, the Pa-trol raised hell with me because I’d shotthe window out of Howard Turnbull’ssister’s car!

I’ve lost close to 50 pounds since I re-tired from the Patrol in 1966. I weighed206 then and only 150 now. No, it wasn’tillness or dieting; I just got off my can andwent to work rebuilding and remodelingthis house. It’s over 75 years old. There’san upstairs apartment exactly like thedownstairs. We used to rent half of thehouse, but don’t anymore. Got tired of thenoise.

My wife and boy, Herb, Jr., did most ofthe paintings you see on the walls.They’re both talented and sell their workregularly. My son teaches art in Jacksonand has developed many fine artists.”

(This interview took place in 1980. Re-tired Lieutenant Herbert F. Wickham diedon March 9, 1996.)

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Blessed with perhaps the most pro-vocative nickname in the history of theMissouri State Highway Patrol, NookieLee can put more words on a 60-minutecassette tape than anyone I know. Hissense of humor is more rambunctiousthan his brother, Herb’s, but no less en-gaging.

“When the Patrol hired me as a weightinspector in 1943, all I knew about the jobwas that it had something to do withtrucks. I’d never fooled with a truck in mylife that I didn’t get dirty. I told my wife,Wildah Mae, “I’ve got to get me somework clothes.” I went to town and boughtseveral pairs of striped overalls and bluedenim work shirts and reported to Ser-geant George Pate at Post F-1, the scalehouse at Kingdom City, in my new duds.Imagine my surprise when I found out Icould wear slacks and a sport shirt, andthat I didn’t have to crawl around and getdirty at all, just sit in the scale house andweigh trucks. I was in hog heaven.

Facilities were primitive then in theweigh station, which was a little bitty build-ing. I sat on a milk stool until I scroungedup a barber chair, but they made me takeit out. They were afraid I was cutting hairon the side, I guess. Later I located somesecondhand cane-bottomed chairs and arocker or two, repaired them at home, andput them in the scale house. We had a ra-dio receiver, but no transmitter, so when-ever I had to call Troop F Headquarters inJefferson City, I used the telephone. Ofcourse filing cabinets were unheard of.What few papers and books were needed,we stored in pasteboard boxes and or-ange crates. There was no inside plumb-ing, either. In a pinch you hiked up the hillto the blackberry patch. But we didn’t

ROBERT E. “NOOKIE” LEE

think of it as difficult. The job was whatyou made it and everybody looked out foreverybody else.

If you saw somebody fouling up, youcalled him aside and said, “Hey, boy, youbetter shape up. You’re making us lookbad.”

My monthly take-home pay was $108,out of a total salary of $125. Heck, thetroopers didn’t make much more. Therewere three officers in the area, all sta-tioned in Columbia: George Pate, DaveConyers, and J. T. Jones, and one otherweight inspector. I’ll call him Smitty (nothis real name, but I have my reasons,which I’ll reveal later). There were no offic-ers stationed in Fulton or Mexico, and thenext town east of Columbia on Highway40 with troopers living in it was Wentzville.Of course I-70 was just somebody’sdream then.

For the first year Smitty and I workedopposite shifts, eight in the morning untilsix in the evening, and six in the eveninguntil four in the morning. I’d take my rifleto work with me sometimes on the nightshift and shoot four or five young rabbitsbehind the scale house. Then, I’d dress

Weight Inspector Robert E.“Nookie” Lee

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them and take them up to Kate’s restau-rant and we’d have a midnight lunch offried rabbit, gravy, and hot biscuits.There’d be troopers, weight clerks, andtruck drivers at the table, all enjoying themeal and glad to get it, because nobodyhad any money.

All my training was on the job. Pategave me some law books and policymanuals, and I plowed through them try-ing to achieve some understanding withmy eighth grade education. Hell, I got somired down in “to wit” and “notwithstand-ing” and “habeas corpus,” I wanted tothrow those books away. But I did the bestI could, and when I ran into something Icouldn’t understand, I asked Smitty andeven consulted the truck drivers, whowere very helpful. Eventually, I learned thebus and truck laws. As a matter of fact,people still call the house with questionsabout licensing and so on. If I’m, not sureof the answer, I call the scale house, butmost of the time I can answer their ques-tions. When I told Pate about consultingthe truck drivers for their opinions on poli-cies and laws, he liked the idea. “I neverthought of doing it that way, but it soundsgood,” he said.

Smitty had his problems, family orsomething, and began drinking heavily—both at home and at work. He even turnedhis old Chevrolet over a couple of timesbetween Fulton and Kingdom City. Onenight about a year after I’d started work-ing, David Conyers came to the house.

“Nookie, I’m on a spot,” he said.“Smitty’s drunker than hell out there at thescale house. He can’t even sit up straightat the beam. This is the second time it’shappened, and Pate told me if I caughthim again and didn’t report him, he’d fireme.”

“Dave,” I said, “it’s doesn’t look like youhave any choice. You can’t lose your jobover a drunk.”

They let Smitty go.

Pate questioned me afterwards. “Didyou know Smitty was drinking?” he asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“Why didn’t you report him?”

This photo ofthe KingdomCity weigh sta-tion was takenJune 14, 1948.

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“Sergeant, you didn’t hire me to reportdrunks. You hired me to weigh trucks.” Isaid.

“Did you know not reporting him couldcost you your job?” he said.

“I was looking for a job when I got thisone, sergeant. I’m not going to squeal onnobody.”

“How’d you know Smitty was drinking?”Pate continued.

I pointed north, behind the weigh sta-tion. “Walk up that hill and count theempty half-pint bottles. And, did you evernotice how he kept his mouth full of Sen-Sen all the time? He didn’t chew thembecause he liked them; they helped hidethe scent of liquor on his breath.”

With Smitty gone they turned the weighscale operation over to me. “Make yourown damned schedule and run it the wayyou want to,” Pate said.

I worked some weird hours for a fewyears. Wildah Mae reported to her job atthree in the afternoon and for a while wejust passed and said “hi” coming and go-ing. I tried to zero in on the violations andkeep the truck drivers guessing as towhen the scale house would be open. Imight start my shift at midnight, or noon,or early in the morning.

Captain Harry Hansen, the command-ing officer of Troop F, didn’t know whatwas going on. He’d call F-1, expecting itto be open and get no answer. He ques-tioned Pate, who was the only one withmy schedule.

“George, why isn’t that scale house op-erating?” Hansen said.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s operating.You’re getting your reports regularly, aren’tyou?” said Pate.

“Well, yeah,” admitted Hansen. “the re-ports are coming in.”

They left me alone after that.

When I started, trucks weren’t even re-quired to have brake lights and you shouldhave seen the taillights. Big trucks wouldbe going down the road with one little tail-light about the size of the clearance lightson the cabs of today’s trucks. I encour-aged the drivers to install more lights.When you’re driving down the highway,it’s nice if you can recognize an oncomingtruck and give it room. It was especiallyimportant back then on the narrow, two-lane roads.

Red Flaherty, who ran a service stationnearby, told me, “Nookie, you’ve made memore money than anyone that’s been overthere. I’m putting lights on those truckslike you wouldn’t believe.”

People really appreciated the Patrol’shelp then. Once a month an announce-ment ran in the local newspaper. “TheHighway Patrol and Fulton Police Depart-ment will hold a safety check next Satur-day in front of the Fulton City Hall.” Patrolofficers J.T. Jones, Conyers, and Pate,and Bates Huddleston and Keeley Breidof the police department would inspect thecars. Practically everybody who owned avehicle in the area came through. The of-ficers wrote a sackful of blue warnings,but rarely did they arrest anybody. It was aservice and people were glad to take ad-vantage of it.

Citizens, especially the kids, should re-gard the police as their friends and not beafraid of them. I think some representativeof the law enforcement community shouldspeak once a month in each school to ac-quaint young people with the law and toget to know them on a more personal ba-sis. Law officers should be the kids’friends and not be sneaking around cor-

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ners trying to catch them doing somethingwrong.

Everyone always said that we had acloseness and spirit of cooperation be-tween the weigh clerks and troopers atKingdom City that was unmatched any-where in the state. Doc Harris, who joinedme as an inspector in 1948, and I tried tocreate an atmosphere where everyone satdown and talked about his work and anyproblems he was having. We learned fromthe troopers and they learned from us,and what difference did it make that theywore blue uniforms and we wore brown?We were all enforcing the same laws. Itwas like one big family and, as in all fami-lies; we had our differences, but what bet-ter way to clear the air than a goodargument?

I got along fine with every sergeant Iworked under. I guess the smartest super-visor I ever had was Pappy Dix. When hewas transferred from Neosho to our zone

in 1948, I’d never met him, though I’dheard nothing but good things about him.But, when he drove up and walked insideF-1 the first time, I had misgivings, to saythe least. There was no describing thecondition of his uniform, and as he puffedaway on that old smelly pipe he alwaysheld between his teeth, I thought, myGod, is this what we’ve inherited?

First impressions are often wrong; I canhonestly say I never worked for a moreintelligent, conscientious, even-temperedman. You never knew it when he wasmad; though I’m confident things get un-der his skin now and then. He could relateto people from all stations of life, high andlow, and speak their language.

We had fun at F-1, and I was the buttof most of the jokes from 1943 to 1976, Iguess. They were always pulling some-thing on me. One day I got a call to help asick man off a bus across the highway.When I arrived, I discovered the man

(left to right) Weight Inspector Robert E. “Nookie” Lee stands with Trooper O.C.Shepers, and Weight Inspector J.D. “Doc” Harris.

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wasn’t sick—he was dead, deader than adoorknob—and he was on the top level ofa double-deck bus. Not only that, heweighed about 300 pounds! Three of us,with me in the middle, managed to carthim off, but I was down in the back forseveral days. I ought to sue Greyhoundyet. My back started acting up again theother day.

I was always a hell raiser. I fought thesystem for 33 years and got in trouble do-ing it occasionally. When Jim Blair waslieutenant governor of Missouri in the late1940s and early 1950s, he used to stop atthe scale house and loaf. One day he andI and Trooper Tillie Cameron were sittingthere and Jim said, “Hey, Uncle Lee, that’sa good shirt you got on there.” He wasreferring to my uniform shirt, which we’dstarted wearing a few years before.

“It ought to be, Jim,” I said. “It cost me$16 or $17.” They were custom-made,you know.

You could hear him holler “What!” for10 miles. “My God!” he exclaimed, “thisnice white dress shirt I’m wearing onlycost me nine dollars. Sixteen or seven-teen dollars? Why, that’s ridiculous.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “Don’t youquote me. I don’t want to get in a wrangleover uniforms. I’ve had enough problemslately. I’ve got a witness here (Tillie) whowill swear you were doing all the talking.Just let it stay in the scale house, okay?”

His shirttail never touched his back un-til he was over in Jefferson City talking toeverybody about the high cost of our uni-forms. Colonel Hugh Waggoner soonheard about it and hit the ceiling. A fewdays later a directive was issued to theeffect that “Anyone criticizing the uniformor its price would be subject to disciplinaryaction.”

I never had a better friend than HughWaggoner, who knew all along that I was

the one who had talked to Jim Blair. Thenext time I was in Jefferson City, I stoppedby Waggoner’s office. “Colonel, I onlyquoted the price of the shirt. I didn’t criti-cize the uniform. I only told the truth, andif you’ll be honest, $17 is too much for aweight clerk to give for a shirt to wearcrawling around under a truck.” He didn’tdisagree.

In the early days we still had the jus-tices of the peace, who weren’t full-timejudges, just elected officials who had otherjobs and held court when necessary. Jus-tice Robinson in Kingdom City heardcases in his home at night, and by daywherever he happened to be on his farm.Sometimes it would be in his barn, or if hewas disking or plowing, he and I and thetruck driver would sit down on the plowbeam with the mules and have court rightthere in the cornfield. If the trucker wanteda receipt, Robinson turned the little pinksummons over and wrote on the back:“You were found guilty by this court andfined X amount of dollars.” Then the truckdriver and I drove back to the scale housein my 1936 Ford and the justice continuedhis plowing.

Speaking of court, I remember some-thing that happened while Hugh P.Williamson was the prosecuting attorneyof Callaway County during the mid-’40s. Iwas training Martin Bryant, a new inspec-tor who had just been discharged from thearmed forces after serving in World War II.Old man Dave Clay, who hauled corn tocattle feeders all around the county, cameacross the scales. His license allowed hima gross weight of 22,000 pounds, but hewas 2,000 pounds over. He was a couplethousand over on his rear axle, too, but Icouldn’t see making two charges. “Dave,”I said, “if you correct your axle, we’ll arrestyou for only the one charge.” He shiftedhis load off the axle, Trooper Poodle Breidmade out the ticket, and I thought we’dheard the last of it.

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Two or three weeks later the phonerang at F-1. It was Hugh P. Williamson,the prosecutor. “We’re going to have atrial on Dave Clay,” he announced.

Martin, Poodle, and I, armed with ourarrest reports and log sheets showing thetruck weights, went to the courthouse inFulton on the appointed day. Hugh P. metus at the door. “I’ll tell you something,young fellows,” he said. “I’m doing some-thing today that I’ve never done before. Inthis trial I will act as prosecutor and alsorepresent Mr. Clay, the defendant.”

Now, I’m no authority on legal proce-dure, but I don’t know how he could dothat. Only Hugh P. Williamson would havethe guts to try it!

I said to Poodle, “Gather up your re-ports and let’s get out of here. We’ve lostthis one.”

That Hugh P. was a dandy. Used tokeep his old Great Dane in the courtroomwhile he heard cases. One thing abouthim, though, it was his courtroom. Henever, never let a defense attorney brow-beat a witness. If the attorney started toget rough, Williamson would say, “Now,hold on. You can talk to this man betterthan that. That sort of behavior will not betolerated in my court.” When one of theVan Matre brothers from Mexico had a cli-ent who was arrested in Callaway County,they’d usually take a change of venue, be-cause they weren’t allowed to use the tac-tics in Hugh P.’s court that they used otherplaces.

Old Hugh P. was different, but he was afine man. Few knew about the goodnessthat he did. He raised a tremendous veg-etable patch and gave away large quanti-ties every year. Sometimes he’d go backto the person and expect his wife to cookthe vegetables, so he could eat them, butall-in-all, Hugh was a likeable guy.

I mentioned Poodle Breid earlier. Onenight he and I arrested a young driverfrom Boonville for being overweight on his

truck axle. We asked him to shift his loadand he turned belligerent and vulgar, re-fused to touch the load, and left in a huff.When he came back later, we tried to talkto him again and he lost his temper. Hepunched Poodle in the mouth and took offrunning down the shoulder of Highway 40.Poodle scrambled after him, running apoor second, fell down, tore both kneesout of his trousers, and skinned the palmsof his hands. Breid returned empty-handed, panting and bleeding, and Icouldn’t help laughing.

“Poodle,” I said, “you ought to haveknown better. That boy is too young foryou to catch. You’ve been around too longto be running races.”

One winter night Pappy Dix and I weresitting in front of the scales when a trac-tor-trailer pulled onto the scale platform.The rig was covered with ice and snowand his gross weight was about 6,000pounds too heavy. “My God, look here,Sarge,” I said.

Dix chewed on his pipe a few secondsand studied the scale reading. “Prettyheavy, isn’t he?” he drawled.

I told the driver to pull over and comeinside. “Fellow, your truck is terribly over-weight,” I said.

He looked shocked. Then he said, po-litely, “I can’t buy that.” He handed me aweight ticket from Alabama where he’dloaded his cargo. The ticket showed histruck weight as considerably less than Ihad weighed it. In fact, if the figures onthe ticket were true, he was legal in Mis-souri.

“I’m sorry. All I can go by is what I’veweighed you at, and you’re over byplenty,” I said.

“Did you take into consideration theamount of ice that’s accumulated on thetruck?” he asked.

“There’s no way I could do that withoutknocking it off and reweighing you. But

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even so, I can’t believe you could havethat much ice on your truck.”

“Would you give me the opportunity todig the slush off and reweigh?” said thedriver.

I turned to Dix. “What do you think,Sarge?” He nodded his OK.

The truck driver walked across thehighway to Don Tenney’s truck stop, bor-rowed a sledgehammer and wrecking bar,and went to work banging and prying thatice off the truck. It was encrusted under-neath, on top, and on the sides. We satthere in the scale house and chuckledover his efforts, but the pile of ice grewuntil the stuff was heaped all around hisrig. It looked like somebody had cleanedout a stock rack.

“I’m ready to reweigh now,” the driverannounced finally.

He pulled onto the platform and Dixand I couldn’t believe our eyes. The truckweighed 200 or 300 pounds less than ithad in Alabama. The fellow had beenhauling about three tons of ice and snowon the outside of his truck!

“Well, Sarge, I’ve learned somethingtonight,” I told Pappy. From then on, whenwe had winter storms and the trucksstarted building up accumulations of iceand slush, I closed the scales.

My mother once told me, “Experienceis a dear teacher, but it’s a good one.” Igot my experience in 33 years of associat-ing with all types of people: policemen,truck drivers, drunks, pimps, whores,preachers, nuns, Lord knows what else.They all came through the scale housewith their problems. I didn’t learn nearenough, though; I’m still too ornery to live,but I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.

I spend most of my time now doinganything I want to. I fish and hunt anddon’t work at all anymore. I used to tendbar at the bowling alley three nights aweek to help buy gas, but I gave that up.

That’s what’s hurting retired folks, youknow, those high gas prices.

I went out the other day to drive mytruck downtown and noticed my licenseplate had expired. Isn’t that something? Iwork all my life arresting people for ex-pired registrations and I let mine run out. Ijust hadn’t driven it all winter and forgotcompletely about it.

I see some of the troopers now andthen — Cal Price, Donnie Schmitz, BillBaker — and Wildah Mae and I socializewith Slick Slevin and his wife regularly.We attended a Highway Patrol Christmasparty recently ... I got about half drunk andhad a hell of a time!”

(Note: This interview took place in 1980.Retired Weight Inspector Robert E.“Nookie” Lee died March 15, 1984, at theage of 69.)

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HERBERT “HERB” WALKER

Tpr. Herbert Walker

Stationed in Lee’s Summit for his entire29-year career, Herb Walker was the sec-ond member of his family to join the Pa-trol, his brother Fred having died at thehands of two gunmen in 1941. A memberof the first drivers’ examination class in1952 and one of the first radar operatorsin 1959, Herb retired as a zone sergeantin 1972. He still lives in Lee’s Summit, re-taining an active interest in community af-fairs, sports, fishing, and gardening.

“In 1943, my wife, Allene, my son,Charlie, and I lived on McKinley Street inHannibal. I drove a city bus for a living.Sergeant Russell Minor of the MissouriHighway Patrol was a neighbor and closefriend. He suggested that I apply for thePatrol. I’d always been conscious of mysize, I should say that lack of it, and didn’tthink I was heavy enough to qualify. Youhad to weigh 150 pounds. But, I appliedand just squeaked by the weight minimumat 152 pounds.

Our recruit class numbered only 12members and began training in August.We attended school for two weeks in Jef-ferson City, returned home for a weekend,then came back for a final two, before go-ing to work on the road.

We recruits lived in a house on DunklinStreet; school was conducted at a juniorhigh school in a room on the west side ofthe building. Air conditioning was unheardof then, except in movie theaters, and bythe late afternoon, we were sitting in poolsof perspiration. One afternoon an instruc-tor, Lieutenant K.K. Johnson, got up andread about a bank robbery at Hawk Point.The subject was dry, the students werehot and tired, and K.K. lost everybody af-ter about five minutes. Finally, he stoppedreading.

“OK, write up a detailed report abouteverything I’ve just read,” he snapped.

That brought us out of it, but nobodycould remember much of anything aboutthe robbery. All I could recall was that therobbers tried to cross the Missouri Riveron a ferryboat unsuccessfully during theirgetaway. So, I filled a page or two withthis part of the episode. I don’t know whatthe other guys wrote.

This was during wartime and we hadseveral blackouts. These were drills inpreparation for enemy air attacks. A sirensounded and you were supposed to turnoff all lights and close window shades ‘tilthe all-clear signal sounded. DaveConyers was in the class, and Dave was,and probably still is, goosey. If you sneakup and touch him, he goes wild.

One night during a blackout, the guysgot to tormenting Dave. They’d creep upon him in the darkness, tickle him, andhe’d thrash around for a while, throwingobjects and knocking things over. Then, it

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would quiet down only to erupt again afew seconds later. At last the all clearsounded and we turned the lights on.Dave was gone.

“Is he outside?” somebody asked.

“Don’t think so.”

“Here I am, you son of a guns,” saidDave from under a bed. “This is the onlysafe place I could find.”

Following graduation I was assigned toTroop A, working out of the headquartersat Lee’s Summit. Our uniforms hadn’t ar-rived when we started, so we went towork in civilian clothes. We were ridingwith a veteran officer and observing, so itdidn’t matter. Otto Viets was the troopcommanding officer then. He had the newmen ride with all the officers in the area togive them a broader base of experience, agood practice. I recall riding with HerbBrigham, Shelton Abney, and Bob Davis.

Troop A was much larger then, extend-ing all the way north to the Iowa line. St.Joseph, Bethany, Maryville, and Cameronhad one or more troopers living there, butotherwise, there was nobody north of theMissouri river in Troop A. There probablyweren’t over 28 or 29 officers assigned tothe entire troop.

We worked 10-hour days, with threedays off each month and one weekend aquarter. We also received a few daysyearly vacation. There were only twoshifts, 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. and 6:00 to 4 a.m.Usually it was daylight before you reachedhome after the night shift.

My family stayed in Hannibal a fewdays before joining me in Lee’s Summit.By then I’d ridden around a little andthought I knew the area. Captain Vietsmust have thought so, too, because heallowed Trooper W. L. Hutchings (one ofmy classmates) and me to pick up mywife and boy at Union Station in Kansas

City, during our work shift in a patrol car.We started west on U. S. Highway 50. Weknew we had to turn north eventually toreach the train station, but neither of ussaw a familiar street.

“Uh-oh” said Hutch, “I think we’d betterturn around.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He pointed at the sign ahead. It read,“Entering Kansas.”

When I joined the Patrol, you rode witha partner. The only time you rode alonewas when your partner was on leave orvacation. I’ve always thought two-mancars are best. They’re definitely safer andat an accident scene, one man can gatherinformation while the other directs traffic.Bob Davis, later commanding officer ofTroop H at St. Joseph, always said that ifhe had only two men on duty, he’d havethem in the same car. I agree.

Most of our patrol cars wereChevrolets. For years afterward theyformed the bulk of the fleet. They werecheaper to buy and operate, but theywouldn’t run very fast. Seventy miles perhour, and that downhill with a long run,was the top speed. Of course the speedlimit during wartime was only 35 mph, andmost people observed it. If they didn’t theyran the risk of losing their gas rationingcard.

When anybody wanted to outrun us,though, they usually could. Elbert Nashand I were on Highway 40 just east ofKansas City one night. An Oldsmobilecame flying out of a tavern parking lotright in front of us, squealing tires andfishtailing. I hit the red light button and theguy in the Olds poured the coals to thatRocket-8 engine. Orange smoke belchedout as we watched his taillights disappearover the hill on 31st Street west of VanBrunt Boulevard in Kansas City.

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We radioed the Kansas City Police,who took up the chase. It ended with anaccident on Holmes Street, miles fromwhere we’d first sighted the car. Theypicked the guys up later at a bus stop.

Another night in the late 1940s, an in-mate from the state school for delinquentboys at Boonville stole a truck andheaded west on Highway 40. He side-swiped an Oldsmobile, whose driver thendropped in behind and followed him. ATroop F officer picked up the chase, butcouldn’t keep up with either vehicle. An-other of our officers, Ernest Van Winkle,tried to catch the truck at Higginsville, butthe escapee outran him, too. The Oldspaced the truck at a safe distance.

Ed Butler and I were working nearLee’s Summit. We were patrolling in sepa-rate cars; I in a Ford, and he in aChevrolet. The Ford wasn’t very fast, but itwould outrun the Chevy, so Ed got his.351-caliber rifle and climbed in with me.We drove to Oak Grove. Van Winkle hadstayed in the chase and kept us posted onthe truck’s location, even though all hecould see were receding taillights.

As the truck approached us, I pulledout and made a running start and droppedin behind him. I was afraid that if he gottoo much lead, he might outdistance us,but the two vehicles would run about thesame speed. I attempted to pull alongsideseveral times but he’d veer over and forceme to brake.

Finally, Ed poked his rifle out the sidewindow and squeezed off a few rounds atthe tires. With each shot debris would flyoff the truck and smack against the patrolcar. Just west of Grain Valley, a slug blewout a tire and the truck went off the road.It turned end over end several times be-fore coming to rest on the pavement. Thetruck was a total wreck, but the escapeehad only a few scratches. We pulled himout and took him to the parental home inKansas City. He was returned to Boonville

the next day. That night he stole anothertruck and escaped again! He went eastthat time, though.

Those old Chevys of the 1940s wereequipped with underseat heaters thatworked fine for a year. After that, youfroze. I’ve worked when there were onlytwo little clear spots on the windshieldwhere the heater was blowing away thefrost. Everything else was covered. Natu-rally the temperature inside the car hov-ered around freezing. You’d wear all theclothes you could get on, but it was stillfrigid.

One night Trooper Bob Place and Iwere riding together and the heater quit.We limped over to the Highway Depart-ment Building in Kansas City where theykept a janitor working all night. Bob tookthe heater out, repaired it, and off we wentto finish our tour of duty.

The few Fords we drove had betterheaters, but the bodies weren’t very tight.They had cracks under the doors, and sowere drafty and noisy. But, when you con-sider that the officers in the early 30s pa-trolled with the tops down, I guess wedidn’t have it so bad.

I always patrolled in a car, but we didhave to learn to ride a motorcycle in re-cruit school. Our class, taught by Ser-geant H.A. Hansen from Jefferson City,consisted of riding at low speed around ahigh school track and the Troop F drive-way. Pretty sedate, but even so JohnCrow had an accident and mashed histhumb. “Scoop” Usher, a former police-man, was the only member of the classwho had ridden a ‘cycle before.

Speaking of motorcycles, they used totell this story about Trooper Jim Judkins,who in idle moments, took to riding his‘cycle over the earthen equipment behindthe shooting range at Troop A Headquar-ters. Captain Baxter was walking by therange one day and noticed the tracks

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crisscrossing the sod. He summoned Jimto the office.

“Judkins, what are you doin’ ridin’ thatcycle on the range?”

Jim was dumbfounded, ”Why ... how’dyou know it was me, Captain?”

“’Cause you’re the only man I’ve gotthat’s crazy enough to do anything likethat!”

Bob Place rode a Highway Patrol mo-torcycle to and from the Troop A office.Sometimes he’d put his wife, Kay, and thekids in the sidecar and take them for aride around the neighborhood.

Bob arrested a great big drunken rail-road worker one time. I don’t know if Bobhad forgotten his handcuffs or what, buthe had the guy trussed up with a rope,just like a rodeo calf when he brought himto the office.

Place still dreams about working theroad, and for some reason his dreams areusually about fighting. Last fall in themiddle of one of those nightmares heswung a haymaker, connected with theheadboard of the bed, and broke hishand. I dream about patrolling too, butnever about fighting—probably because Inever had many fights, just a few scuffles.I wasn’t big enough to hurt anybody, any-way.

Officers were much freer to do whatthey wanted in the early ‘40s. There wereno supervisors in the field at all. You hadthe troop commander, who was a captain,and the troop sergeant, who performedthe duties now done by the lieutenants.They spent virtually all their time at head-quarters. When things were quiet on thenight shift we would sometimes go to the40 Highway Drive-In Theater and watchthe show. The proprietors liked to see usthere, so they’d let us in free. We’d drop

by fairs and football and baseball games,too. I’ve always felt that this sort of thingwas OK, if not done excessively. It placesyou before the public and helps generategood will toward the department.

To show you how little activity we hadthen compared to now, Sergeant HerbHolt worked in the office, and besides an-swering the telephone, one of his dutieswas preparing troop reports. He typed de-scriptive arrest reports and accident re-ports and even drew the diagramreconstructing the accident. He probablyaveraged 10 or 12 reports each evening.

Herb also wrote up a summary of sto-len cars, which he distributed among theroad officers. Their seeming indifferenceto the report indicated to Herb that nobodywas reading it.

“Let’s just cut out that summary,” hesuggested to Captain Viets. “They don’tpay any attention to it anyway.” But, Vietsmade him continue the report.

Holt decided he’d prove his point. Atthe bottom of the next day’s summary, hetyped, “Anybody reading this can collect adime from Herb Holt.” Shelton Abney wasthe only guy who collected in the wholetroop.

The judges were justices of the peacethen, employed by the township. Therewere three in Jackson County, one at BlueSprings, another near Kansas City onU.S. 50, and another in Independence.The only decent courtroom was in Inde-pendence; the others were unkempt andshabby. I hated to take people I’d arrestedinside them. The justice received the courtcosts from each case, so he was alwayshappy to see you with a traffic violator.

Judge Brady at Independence was afine judge, but he believed a troopershould never lose his temper, no matterwhat the provocation. Brady kept his tem-per in check pretty well, too, except forone thing; if a defendant called his court a

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“kangaroo” or “jackrabbit” court, he’d hitthe ceiling. One night I brought a fellow inwho had become intoxicated and stalledhis car in the roadway, blocking traffic. Asthe judge reviewed the charge, the motor-ist uttered the fatal words, along withsome choice obscenities.

“Did you say what I thought you said?”asked Judge Brady. “Well, if you did,you’d better not repeat it!”

He did and paid for it with a night in jailand a fine to boot.

I was involved in very little criminalwork, so most of my memories are of ac-cidents and chases ... traffic-related activi-ties. In 29 years on the Patrol I never shotat anybody, nor did anyone shoot at me.In fact, only once did I have a gun pulledon me, and that was a mistake. One nightElbert Nash and I recovered a stolen carowned by the operator of The Old Planta-tion, a tavern on U.S. Highway 40. Thethieves abandoned the car just down theroad from the tavern, so we decided to re-turn it to the owner. I drove the stolen au-tomobile, with Nash following in the patrolcar.

Meanwhile the owner hitched a ridewith a friend and saw me in his car. In thedarkness he mistook me for the thief and,as they pulled alongside, motioned me todrive to the shoulder. The owner jumpedout and pointed a pistol at me. I did somefast-talking and convinced him I was astate trooper just as Nash drove up. I’vealways thought it was a good thing that Iwas able to calm the man when I did, be-cause Nash might have shot him when hesaw the gun.

In 1952, I volunteered for the first driverlicense examination school at Sedalia.The week-long course was taught by twofellows from Florida and Oklahoma, stateswhich had adopted the program previ-ously. This job lacked the excitement ofthe road, but it was strictly day work withmost weekends and all holidays off.

Nowadays civilian driver examinersconduct the tests, but when we started,troopers did everything, including the writ-ten and driving tests. At the start our facili-ties usually weren’t the best. We gavewritten tests in Judge Smith’s courtroom inHarrisonville. Later we moved to the wait-ing room outside. That was worse be-cause there were always a bunch ofcourthouse loafers lounging around inyour way. They thought they had moreright to be there than you did—and theymay have been right!

One day in Butler a guy drove in for hisdriver’s test in a dead animal truck. Hesmelled worse than the truck—really ripe!Everybody else was busy, so I had to ridewith him during the examination. After acouple of blocks I decided he could drivejust fine, and we high-tailed it back to theexamination station.

In 1957, the legislature set a speedlimit of 70 mph for federal highways. ThePatrol purchased Dodge radar cars to en-force the new limit. Previously, we’d hadone car, operated statewide by TrooperBob Burgess. Now, we had a car for eachtroop. I was one of the officers selected toattend the three-day school at Rolla tolearn how to operate the radar.

On those first cars the radar wasmounted in the trunk. A section was cutout of the trunk lid and covered with fiber-glass, through which the radar beampassed. We’d park our cars on the shoul-der at a slight angle to check speeds onvehicles going both directions.

As I had the only radar car in the area,I worked all over the troop. I had practi-cally no problems with prosecution ofspeeding cases. Presented with the evi-dence that the radar speedmeter hadchecked his car at a given speed, the mo-torist usually just plead guilty. Once in agreat while, a person in trouble with pointson his license would contest the case, butgenerally it was cut and dried.

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I’ve had some wild rides. One dayShelton Abney and I were working radartogether out of one car down on MissouriHighway 35 (now Highway 7) when a guycame through at 100 mph. Shelton wasdriving, and he was a fellow who wouldn’tquit in a chase. If there was any chance tocatch a violator, he’d take it.

We were barreling down the highwayafter the speeder at 100 plus when wepopped over a hill and there in the roadfacing us was a farmer who had pulledover in our lane to make a left turn onto agravel road. Abney didn’t slow up a bit. Ithought we’d hit the car for sure, but at thelast possible second, the farmer turnedand we slipped by. We caught thespeeder a couple of miles down the road.Later I mentioned to Shelton that I thoughthe’d cut it a little close back there with thefarmer.

“Well, I couldn’t stop,” he explained,“and if he hadn’t gotten out of the way, I’dnever have missed him. So, I figured,what the hell? We’ll just keep going.” Thatwas Shelton.

Abney chased five burglars all the wayfrom Odessa to Kansas City one nightback in the late 1940s. Shelton was athome in Warrensburg, off-duty, when HerbHolt phoned and said troopers were chas-ing a car west on Highway 40 in SalineCounty. Abney didn’t have time to get intohis uniform; he just threw on his parka,grabbed his gun, and headed north on131 to Odessa. He jumped the car thereand the chase was on.

Bill Barton was trying to catch them,too, but his Chevy heated up and he hadto drop out, but Shelton drove a Ford andhe could stay with the fugitives, who werein an Oldsmobile. Old Highway 40 hadsome wicked curves, and if you didn’tknow the road, you could get into troublepretty fast. East of Grain Valley there wasa bridge over the Gulf, Mobile, and Ohiorailroad. You went into the bridge on a

curve and hit another one just after cross-ing it. The guy driving the Olds slid side-ways on the bridge and scraped therailing almost the entire span, showingsparks all over the pavement.

“I thought for sure he’d lose it,” Sheltonsaid later, “but somehow he straightenedthe car up and crossed the bridge.”

The Kansas City Police had a road-block set up near 31st Street at the BlueRiver, but the fugitives ran it with Sheltonclose behind. The police later saidAbney’s Ford was leaning over so far onthe curves that his wheel rims draggedthe concrete pavement. Both rims trailedsparks like the tail of a comet.

As they approached Van Brunt Boule-vard, Abney was able to pull alongside theOlds. “I could see they’d never stop for aroadblock,” he said, “so I decided to knockthem off the road with the patrol car.” Hesucceeded in stopping them, but theycame out fighting. “The police were thereto help, but I soon broke free and stoodback and let them thump those guys,”said Abney. “See, I didn’t have my uniformon, and my parka wasn’t marked, so theofficers couldn’t tell me from the criminals.I was getting pounded as much as theywere.”

The incident received a big write-up inthe Kansas City Star, and Shelton gar-nered an award for his actions. A ladies’flower club, motivated by civic pride,planted irises in the highway medianwhere the chase ended. The club presi-dent wrote a letter of praise that CaptainViets read aloud at troop meeting. Abneytook a terrific razzing from the men aboutthose irises.

In 1959, I gave up the radar car and re-turned to regular road work. George Patewas captain of Troop A then. When BobDavid was promoted to lieutenant, I waspromoted to zone sergeant in his place,and served in this position ‘til my retire-ment in 1972.

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Captain Pate always insisted that themen fill up the front seats at a troop meet-ing. Now, when we go to a Patrol retirees’meeting, who heads for the back row?George Pate. I always kid him about that.

George was annoyed with officers whowrote memos and signed their badgenumbers instead of their names. He’dbeen cracking down hard on the problemfor a couple of weeks and thought every-body had the message, but some officer,I’ve forgotten who, slipped up and wrotehis badge number for a signature. Patefired it back to the offender with thescribbled message: “What’s the matter?Can’t you write your name?” and signed it“12,” his badge number!

One time at a troop meeting theyshowed a childbirth film in living color. Itamused some, but disturbed others. Ser-geant Madison Roberts took it as long ashe could. He rose from his seat to go out-side for a little air, but made it only as faras the doorway, where he fainted. He wasout cold. Lieutenant Dick Gehrig and Inearly died laughing; in fact most every-body thought it was funny except CaptainPate. We carted Roberts to a couch to re-vive.

Trooper Don Buehler was sitting thereon the back row, looking miserable. “I’dhave left too,” he said, “but when I sawRoberts go down, I knew I couldn’t makeit, so I just stayed in my seat andwatched.”

Later we were kidding Roberts aboutfainting. “You know,” he said, “it wasn’t thepicture that got me. It was that damnedether they were giving to that gal. I swearI could smell it!”

I mentioned the Troop A range earlier inthe story about Judkins and Baxter. WhileGeorge Pate was captain at Troop A, therange figured in another incident that musthave happened in the mid-1960s.

Sergeant Lewis Murphy was a BoyScout leader here in Lee’s Summit. He

decided that the scouts could earn a littlemoney for their troop by digging the leadfrom spent bullets out of the embankmentat the back of the range and selling it. Theonly problem was, he didn’t ask CaptainPate. One Saturday, Murphy brought theboys out and they spent the morning dig-ging holes in the backstop and retrievingthe lead. The embankment was pockedwith holes. He soon found out that Murphwas responsible and his scouts were backat the range filling the holes and resod-ding the bank. “You dug ‘em. Now you fill‘em in,” ordered Pate.

I remember Herb Brigham saying: “Ifyou work for the Highway Patrol 10 years,you’ll have a very liberal education.”

I worked for 29 years and can truthfullysay that all the people I worked with andall the folks I encountered on the high-ways were interesting. That’s what I missmost in retirement, the people I had dailycontact with. But, I wouldn’t want to goback to work. I’ve truly enjoyed my retire-ment. I keep busy with my lawn and gar-den, and when I tire of those, there areseveral good fishing holes to visit.”

(This interview took place in 1980. RetiredSergeant Herb Walker died on February10, 2001.)

Retired Sergeant Herb Walker, 1996.

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Possessor of a dry wit and a millionstories, Herb Lee today resides with hiswife Martha in Callaway County, where heworked for 23 years as a weight inspectorfor the Highway Patrol.

“Come on in and sit down. What do youwant to talk about? Fishing? Baseball?The Highway Patrol? What do you say wetalk about all three? I’m leery of tape re-corders, though, because of a little trickTrooper Ray Magruder pulled on me ayear or so before I retired. We had com-pleted a truck check down in MontgomeryCounty and were riding north on Highway19 near Montgomery City when he startedasking me questions. I’d noticed the taperecorder on the seat of his patrol car whenI climbed in, but forgot about it during ourconversation.

The troop commander had issued or-ders telling us, for the 10th time, not towrite more than one charge on each bluewarning. If we warned a driver for havinga defective headlight and for driving withan expired license plate, for instance, hewanted us to fill out two warning reports.

“Herb, did you write any doubles onthose blues?” asked Ray.

“Oh, yeah, I do that all the time,” I said.

We met a truck loaded with empty bar-rels. “I guess he’s going to make somesorghum,” commented Ray.

“Oh, hell no,” I said. “That’s an oldbootlegger from Wellsville. He’s takingthose barrels to pick up some whiskey.”

He kept cranking away, asking mequestions just to make me cuss or saysomething ridiculous or criticize our super-

HERBERT H. LEE

visors, until we reached the 54-19 junctioneast of Mexico. Then he rewound the tapeand played out conversation.

“You mean you recorded that?” I said.We listened to that thing and laughed andlaughed. I’ll bet he’s still got it. It was amess—enough to get me fired.

My working career covered exactly 50years, from 1923 to 1973, the last 23 as aweight inspector for the Highway Patrol. Inall those years I was never unemployed,not even for one day. Things looked bad,though, in May of 1930 when the shoefactory where I worked here in Fultonclosed. Martha and I had been marriedMarch 1, and I thought we’d starve todeath for sure, but I landed a job at a fill-ing station in Jefferson City. We rented anapartment at the corner of Jefferson andMcCarty streets near the station. I made$20 a week pumping gas and greasingcars, plus $5 a game playing baseball inJefferson City and Columbia and $8 forplaying in Moberly. I played shortstop andpitched for various teams. That was goodmoney for the times. I became indepen-dently rich!

Weight Inspector Herb Lee

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Those were Prohibition days and therewere a lot of people making home-brew.There was a guy who ran a little restau-rant near St. Peter’s Catholic Church onBroadway Street a couple of blocks fromthe station where I worked. He sold ham-burgers up front, but made illegal beer inthe back room. One morning, I was open-ing the station when I saw his Model AFord coming up the hill on Jefferson. Justas he passed, a case full of bottles slidout of the rumble seat and hit the pave-ment. The old boy knew he’d lost part ofhis load, but he didn’t dare stop. I ran outand picked up those quart bottles of beerrolling all over the street. None of themwere broken. I refilled the case and hid itin the grease pit inside the gas station.That evening after work I stopped by theguy’s restaurant.

“This morning down by McCarty andJefferson, did you lose something?” Iasked.

“What’d you do with it?” he said.

“Picked it up. Nobody knows about itbut me.”

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You drinkthe beer, but save my bottles and caseand let me have them back.” I couldn’targue with that. Every now and then I’dstop by his place after work and he’d al-ways give me a quart of good cold beer todrink.

I played baseball regularly from the late‘20s to the late ‘40s. I had a strong throw-ing arm and was a good hitter, though Iwasn’t major league caliber. I could haveplayed minor league ball, though, and stillhave several telegrams from the Spring-field and St. Joseph teams in the Class CWestern League offering a spot on theirrosters. But the contract only called for$90 a month with no expenses, and I

earned more pumping gas and playingsemi-pro ball around Jefferson City.

In the ‘30s a sportswriter for the St.Louis Globe-Democrat named PaulPeerman arranged a tryout for me withthe St. Louis Cardinals. I warmed up withMike Gonzalez, an old-time catcher then acoach with the team, before pitching bat-ting practice. The harder I threw, theharder they hit. Ernie Orsatti, the regularcenterfielder, was working out at third.They bounced three or four screamers offhis ankles and he headed for the dugout.“Man, I’m gettin’ me some shin guards,”he said. My hardest pitches were justgood batting practice to those guys.

Major league teams used to go onbarnstorming tours when the regular sea-son ended, visiting towns and playing ex-hibition games and sometimes picking uplocal talent to play with them. In the mid-‘30s I played with Dizzy and Paul Deanand several other St. Louis Cardinalsagainst the Kansas City Monarchs of theNegro American League. This was severalyears before organized baseball broke thecolor line. Satchel Paige pitched againstus, and could he throw! The ball lookedlike an aspirin tablet coming up there. Youknow what Dizzy Dean said when some-body asked if he was the hardest throwingpitcher in baseball: “Well, I’m amongst

Capt. Clarence E. Potts

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‘em!” But he knew Satch was faster. Dizsat there on the bench that day watchingSatch strike out one batter after anotherand just shook his head. “Did you ever seeanything like that?” he said.

I got my bat on one pitch that day. Iswung about the time Paige cut loose andsliced one down the right field foul line for atriple. I was a right-handed hitter, who nor-mally pulled everything to the left, but Icouldn’t get around on old Satch and nei-ther could anybody else. I think we lostabout four to two.

During the 1940s I was a city policemanhere in Fulton. Hugh P. Williamson wascounty prosecutor then, and brother, hewas a case. He canvassed CallawayCounty twice on foot to win the election!We’d arrest some guy that we thoughtmight be difficult to prosecute in city court,and we’d call Hugh P. and ask him if he’dfile the charge in magistrate court.

“Sure. Bring him over. We’ll wrestle himaround,” he’d say. He always spoke in acommanding voice, with just a hint of sar-casm. Reminded you a little of W.C. Fields.Usually Williamson would prosecute the

case and the fellow would get what he de-served, but once in a while we’d hit a snag.We’d take the suspect to Hugh P.’s officeand Hugh would look him up and down andask, “What church do you belong to?” Theguy would tell him. “Who’s your daddy?”The guy would tell him that, too. “Why, Iknew him,” Hugh would say. “He was a finefellow. I used to go fox hunting with him.Case dismissed!”

I was working alone one night at the po-lice station in city hall when a man namedBooker Mitchum drove up in a taxi. “Herb, Ijust now shot Bunny Tebbs,” he said.

“What did you shoot Bunny for?” I said.

“We got into an argument over a 20-centice bill,” said Booker.

Good God, I thought, what a thing toshoot a man over! (There was a shootingor knifing about every night in the west endof Fulton in those days.)

“Did you hurt him much?” I askedBooker.

Pictured is:Weight Inspec-tor Herb Lee atthe KingdomCity weigh sta-tion in 1954.

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“Well, he fell down.”

“Where did it happen, Booker?”

“Up by Foots Youngs’,” he said. Thiswas a popular hangout where they servedliquor and food.

“How far away were you when you shothim?” I asked.

“Across the street.”

“Have you got the gun with you?”

“Yeah.” He reached into the taxi andbrought out a sawed-off 12-gauge shot-gun. I put the gun into the evidencelocker. “Get in the police car. We’ll go seehow bad Bunny’s hurt,” I said.

“Herb, I can’t go to that end of town.They’ll kill me. Would you take me to thecorner of Westminster Avenue and Sev-enth Street?” (The site of the ChurchillMemorial today.) “I’ll slip on home andsee my wife and then I’ll come right backdown here.”

It was against my better judgment, but Itook him where he wanted to go. After all,Bunny probably only had a few buckshotin him and was more mad than hurt.

“Okay, Booker,” I said as I let him out ofthe car, “you go ahead on home, butmake sure you meet me at city hall afteryou talk to your wife.”

A big crowd had gathered in front ofFoots Young’s’ place. “Where’s Bunny?” Iasked.

“They took him to the hospital,” some-body said.

I tore over to Callaway Memorial emer-gency room and found Bunny lying there,conscious, but breathing unsteadily. I bent

down close and spoke to him. “How areyou doing, Bunny?”

“Oh, Herb, I’m going down ... I’m goin’down fast.”

“No, you’re not,” I said. Then I noticedthe wounds on his body. He was shirtlessand his chest and abdomen were pep-pered with buckshot, but he wasn’t bleed-ing externally; it was all flowing out inside.Booker had blasted him dead center withover 180 buckshot. “Herb,” he groaned, “Ihurt so bad. Turn me over, please.”

“I can’t turn you over, Bunny. You’vegot this tube in your arm.”

“Turn me over anyway. I’m goin’ down.”

Only a minute or so later, Bunny died.As I left the hospital, it hit me: A murderhad been committed and I had locked upthe shotgun and turned the murdererloose! I drove over to city hall in a hurryand found Booker sitting there, patientlywaiting. He’d kept his word and suresoothed my nerves in the process.

That 12-gauge was a good single-bar-reled weapon, and of course I had to keepit to produce as evidence at the trial. I toldHugh P. I’d like to have the gun after thetrial, but I never saw that shotgun afterthey’d sentenced Booker for Bunny’s mur-der. That doggoned Hugh P. kept it.

During the trial Williamson questionedme on the witness stand about the murderweapon. “How long is the barrel of thisshotgun, Officer Lee?” asked Hugh P.,brandishing it in front of the jury.

“I don’t know exactly,” I said “Probablyabout 28 or 29 inches, but it has beensawed off.” Hell, if he wanted to know, heshould have measured it.

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“Well, how long was it before it wassawed off?” said Williamson.

“How should I know?” I said. “I neverlaid eyes on it before the night of theshooting.”

I never did figure out what Hugh P. wasdriving at with that line of questioning, butI’m satisfied that rascal wound up with theshotgun after the trial was over.

I chauffeured Hugh around in the policecar occasionally. One night he called thestation. “Herb, come and get me. I’m at-tending an evening speech in the court-house yard. Clarence Cannon’s going tospeak.” Cannon was the U.S. representa-tive to Congress for the Ninth District. Wearrived at the courthouse and Hughgrabbed me by the arm and led me ontothe speaker’s platform. A huge crowd hadgathered. He marched right up toClarence Cannon.

“Clarence!” boomed Hugh P., “I wantyou to meet Herb Lee, the best damnedpoliceman in the state of Missouri!” Youtalk about embarrassing; I wanted to crawlunder the platform.

Hugh liked to drink beer, usually some-one else’s—a bank official or some otherprominent person he knew. Along aboutmidnight, he’d call. “Come get me, Herb.”I’d drive him home and he’d be afraid togo in. His wife was a little bitty woman, buthe was scared to death of her. And thenthere was his mother-in-law, who livedwith them. He was more afraid of her.

One time I was sitting there waiting forhim to gather enough courage to go in,and I said, “Hugh, the first thing I’d dowhen I walked in that house and thatmother-in-law jumped me would be toknock her under the table.”

Hugh P. shuddered. “You don’t knowmy mother-in-law.”

Williamson’s wife always insisted thatshe drive their car; his mother-in-law rode

beside her with Hugh occupying the backseat. One day they drove to Jefferson Cityto shop. They parallel-parked with plentyof room but when they returned, theyfound that cars had crowded them frontand rear. They all climbed in, Hugh in theback as usual, and Mrs. Williamson at-tempted to drive out of the parking space.She rammed bumpers and fought thewheel for several minutes and didn’t getanywhere. Finally she turned to her hus-band. “Hugh, you’re just going to have toget it out of here for me.”

Unperturbed, Williamson replied,“Woman, you put it in, now you get it out.”

Hugh P. was a fine fellow, though, and Iliked him. He did a lot of charity and usedto give away huge quantities of veg-etables from his garden to needy persons,and few people knew about it. He neverwanted publicity for charitable acts, butdon’t get the idea that he didn’t like to seehis name in print. He wrote numerous ar-ticles for magazines and was foreversounding off about some issue in letters tonewspaper editors. They always printedwhat he wrote. It was stirring stuff.

He brought his young son, Hugh Jr., tothe fire station one morning and asked thefire chief, “Can my boy drive one of yourfire engines?” The chief said okay, andlittle Hugh climbed into the driver’s seat,pretending he was responding to a four-alarmer. Hugh P. rose to the occasion.“Drive her, son, drive her!” he bellowed,“William Woods College is burning to theground!”

The city police, firemen, and membersof the sheriff’s department and other pub-lic officials had a party on Auxvasse Creekone day, complete with fried fish and caseafter case of beer. Everyone had plentyand Hugh P. ate and drank more thananybody else. How he held it all, I’ll neverknow. He must have eaten 15 pounds offish, and Lord only knows how much beerhe put down. Late in the afternoon we ran

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out of beer, so somebody jumped in apickup, drove to Fulton, and brought backa 16-gallon keg. When he drove up,Williamson was first in line, carrying a gal-lon bucket! “God bless you, son,” he toldthe guy in the pickup. “I’ve been a-suck-ing’ on these little bottles all day. If it’sanything I like, it’s BEER IN A BARREL!”With that he proceeded to fill the bucketand load his plate with more fish. Hewound up in a heck of a shape. There wasa little rowboat there on the bank andHugh P. climbed in and rowed up anddown Auxvasse Creek to ease his misery.

Following his term as prosecutor,Williamson served as magistrate judge forseveral years. You could always count onsomething unusual happening in his court-room. Trooper Dale Swartz used to tellabout a time he took two speeders in be-fore Williamson. The first man had beenrunning 10 mph over the limit. Hugh P.found him guilty and imposed a $15 fine.While the first guy was paying the clerknext to the judge’s bench, the secondcase was presented. This guy had beendriving 15 mph over the limit. Hugh P.heard the evidence and proceeded to finehim $10, $5 less than the first man eventhough the second one had been drivingfive mph faster! And, to top it all off, thefirst fellow was standing there within ear-shot. No objection was raised in the court-room, but outside, the speeder who hadpaid $15 squawked to Swartz, who couldonly apologize and try to smooth it over asbest he could.

After the speeders had left, Dale wentback to the courtroom and asked Hugh P.about the apparent inequality of justice.“What do I tell them when they ask meabout it, judge?” he asked.

“Why, that’s easy,” said Hugh P. “Justtell them the judge is crazy.”

I’ll never forget one day when Marthaand I were driving out Seventh Street. We

came up behind two kids that Marthaknew and, since it was hot, we stoppedand gave them a lift. When they got in Inoticed one had a little hatchet and othera hammer and some cold chisels.

“Where you going?” I asked them.

“Out to Hugh P.’s house.”

“What are you going to do out there?”

“We’re going to defrost his icebox!”Hugh passed away recently after a

long illness, and his wife died a few weekslater. She taught at William Woods Col-lege for years, but had been in a resthome sometime before her death.

In December of 1950, I started workingas a weight inspector for the MissouriState Highway Patrol. Cal Price, Russell“Poodle” Breid, and Sergeant Roy“Pappy” Dix were some of the officers sta-tioned in the area then. Dix was the zonesergeant and my supervisor.

“Herb” he said, “you do anything youwant to, but for goodness sake, let meknow if you do anything that might causetrouble. That way, when my superiorscome to me with a complaint, I’ll be ableto answer them.” It didn’t take long to findout if he was as good as his word.

I had just arrived for work one eveningon the four p.m. to midnight shift when thephone rang. It was Peggy, who ran theChicken Shack, a restaurant down theroad. “Herb, come on over. We’ve got abig feast going!” she said.

I should have called the office and toldthem I was going to be out for a while, butI didn’t. I really should have stayed andweighed trucks, but I didn’t even think. Ijust closed those scales down as fast as Icould and joined the party. As I walkedthrough the door to the Chicken Shack,somebody handed me a tumbler full of

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whiskey and I drained it. Then, I sat downat a table and started eating. They hadbuffalo steaks, drinks, music, and a fewgirls, and I completely forgot about time,trucks, scales, the Russians, and theHighway Patrol. One thing led to anotherand I never did go back to the weigh sta-tion all evening. My brother, Nookie, wassupposed to relieve me a midnight, andhe had to come after me at Peggy’s,where the party was still in full swing.“Herbert, what are you thinking about?” hesaid. “Come on out of here; I’ll take youhome.” Of course I wasn’t in any shape todrive or even walk too far unaided.

The next day I called Dix and con-fessed my sins. “I’ll take care of it,” Pappysaid. “Don’t worry about it, Herb.” I neverheard another word about the matter. Nodoubt about it, he saved my job.

One morning in the wee hours CalPrice and I were sitting in the scale houseat Kingdom City when we noticed a carstalled in the middle of the Highway 54-40intersection with its lights on. “I bettercheck on that,” said Cal, and he droveover there, leaving me in the scale house.Several minutes went by before Cal called

on the radio. “Herb, come over and giveme a hand. I’m about worn out wrestlingthis guy.” When I got there I found Calstruggling with the driver of the car, whorefused to get out from behind the wheel.His wife was with him; both of them weredead drunk. I grabbed the guy and to-gether we dragged him out, with the wifegiving us the devil all the way.

The couple hired themselves a law-yer—a crook, who I won’t name—andsued Cal and I. The case was moved toJefferson City, to Jim Phillips’ court, by theplaintiffs, thinking they’d get a better breakin a different county. But it didn’t work, be-cause the court found in our favor afteronly a few minutes deliberation. The heckof it was the man and his wife were nicepeople when they were sober. I think theybrought suit at the insistence of the law-yer, a shady character, known for his dis-honesty all over the territory.

That attorney had it in for me after that.He hated me. When we’d meet on thesidewalk, he’d cross the street to avoidspeaking. I went fishing at the governmentexperimental lake east of Kingdom Cityone day and who do I run into but the law-

Weight Inspector Herb Lee at work in Kingdom City on November 22, 1954.

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yer. Well, he couldn’t cross the lake, so hejust ignored me. “That beats any damnedthing I ever did see,” I said. “You’ve fouledup everything else in Callaway County, andnow you’re down here messing up my fish-ing hole.” He took his fishing pole and wenthome.

Poodle Breid and I used to go fishing alot together. He’s retired now and still liveshere in Fulton. We always took a littlesomething to drink when we went out — tohave when we finished our fishing. I recallone time, though, that we started a littleearly on the bottle. It was F.O.B. brandwhiskey. Don’t know what the initials stoodfor, just F.O.B. is all I ever knew. We werefishing at the Missouri University Lake be-tween Guthrie and Ashland in a boat. Thetrees grew close to the shore and thebranches hung down to within a few feetabove the water. If you cast too high, you’dhook a branch, and I did. I could just reachmy plug by standing in the very end of theboat and stretching on tiptoes. I always ac-cused Poodle of pulling the oars, though hedenies it to this day. Anyway I lost my bal-ance and in I went. The water was cold anddeep; it seemed like I went down for 20minutes. I finally fought my way back to thesurface and climbed in the boat, wringingwet, freezing, and mad. Poodle sat theregrinning. “Too much F.O.B.,” he said.“Flipped Out of Boat!”

Poodle was investigating a traffic acci-dent one night down by Richland Creek on54 and called me on the radio to summon awrecker and an ambulance. Something hadhappened during the investigation to makehim lose his temper, and he was barkinginto the mike and slurring his words sobadly that I couldn’t understand him. Hegrowled and muttered a while and when atleast he paused for breath, I cut in. “Breid,calm down.” I said. “You’re making so muchnoise, I’m having trouble copying you.”That made him even madder, and he rantedsome more, but he finally quieted down and

repeated his request and I called theemergency services he wanted.

An hour or so later I saw Poodle’s carpulling up to the scale house. He got outand stormed in. “What’s the matter thatyou couldn’t copy me?” he demanded.“Can’t you understand plain English?”

“Russell,” I said, “you were swallerin’and spittin’ and sputterin’ and hollerin’ somuch, you just weren’t coming in goodenough for me to figure out what youwanted.”

He glared at me and ground his teethand shook his head and finally said, “Well,this is a fine state of affairs. I work on theHighway Patrol for 21 years and adamned weight inspector that’s been heretwo years is telling me how to talk on theradio!” With that he stomped out and Ididn’t see him the rest of the evening. Buta couple of days later, he’d forgottenabout it and we went fishing.

Poodle was very particular about hisclothes and car. Everything had to be neatand clean. He and I went hunting one dayin his brand new, shiny black Packard andleft it parked in a farmer’s barn lot. Weshould have known better, because whenwe returned, I’ll bet there were 25 turkeysperched all over that Packard. They’d

Russell G. “Poodle” Breid.

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scratched it up and dirtied it from top tobottom. Poodle nearly died. Then he blewup and threatened to sue the farmer. It wasall I could do to talk him out of it and gethim to go home.

Poodle worked a wreck one night westof Kingdom City on Highway 40, in which aserviceman from Kansas turned his carover. Breid thought the boy was dead atfirst, but he came to in Callaway MemorialHospital and wasn’t even seriously hurt.He told Breid he had been headed home toAlabama for Christmas when he wreckedhis car. He said his folks had called andtold him they were low on money and thatthere would be no presents, but to comeon home and at least the family could betogether.

“But I’ve got money,” the boy continued.“Where’s my service jacket? It’s in there.”

The boy hadn’t been wearing the jacketwhen he was brought in, so Poodle calledme at the scale house. “Herb, go over toTenney’s lot to the wrecked car and see ifyou can find that serviceman’s jacket. Hesays there’s a wad of money in the insidepocket.”

I walked up to the lot and asked aboutthe jacket. One of Tenney’s men remem-bered seeing it in the ditch at the accidentscene. “I think they threw it in the back ofthe wrecker,” he said, but it wasn’t there.Another guy said it had fallen out whenthey unhooked the car at the lot. “I saw thejacket lying out on the drive, so I picked itup and threw it in the back seat of the car.”he said.

It was still there in the seat; so muddyyou couldn’t read the insignia. I felt insideand, sure enough, I found a wallet so full ofbills the boy had put a rubber band aroundit to keep it closed. Don Tenney and Icounted over $700 in greenbacks. I calledthe hospital and told Poodle we’d found themoney. When the boy received the goodnews, he called his parents in Alabama.

“We’re going to have Christmas just assoon as I can get out of this hospital andcatch a bus home,” he told them. A fewdays later he was discharged and headedsouth.

It was truly remarkable that we foundthat money. The jacket was so filthy, it’ssurprising that anyone picked it up at all,and as much as the jacket was thrownaround, the billfold easily could have fallenout and been lost forever. But, happily, wefound the boy’s money. I like to think heand his family had a great Christmas thatyear.

One day in the early ‘50s, Breid and Iwere sitting in the scale house when a fel-low drove up and reported a man lying ina ditch near Richland Creek on Highway54. Officers Roy Dix and Slick Slevin wentdown there and found it was only adummy dressed up in a Missouri Univer-sity sweatshirt, trousers, shoes, and a hat.They brought him to the scale house,where we sat him on a little cabinet in thecorner under the switchbox as a conver-sation piece. I’d be working nights and,every once in a while, I’d catch thatbooger in the corner of my eye and itwould scare me, even though I knew hewas just a dummy. He was that lifelike.

One evening a few weeks after that,Poodle Breid stopped a truck driver infront of the scale house for a minor trafficviolation and brought him inside to write awarning ticket. The scale house had tworooms and we noticed the fellow staringthrough the doorway at the dummy whilePoodle talked to him. The lights were outin the other room though, so he couldn’tsee the dummy distinctly.

“Poodle,” I said, “I’m ready for coffeewhen you get through here.”

“Me, too,” said Poodle, “but thatsonofabuck in the other room might get upand leave while we’re gone.”

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“I’ll take care of that,” I said. I walkedinto the other room, pulled my billy clubfrom under the counter, and whopped thedummy right on the head. He slumpeddown like he was unconscious. I put awaythe club and rejoined Breid and the driver.“Poodle,” I said, “you won’t have to worryabout that fellow. He’ll be here when weget back.” The truck driver didn’t say any-thing. He just walked to his truck, lookingback every few steps.

The next day Captain Potts paid us avisit. “You get that dummy out of here!” heordered. “A guy called the office this morn-ing and said you beat some poor fellowhalf to death last night!”

We had a lot of funny things happenaround the scale house. There used to bea store across the highway, run byEmmett Baumgartner. His son, George,has a large furniture store in Auxvassenow. Emmett caught a chicken hawk witha broken wing and nursed him back tohealth. He kept him chained to a perch in-side his store. One Friday afternoon aMissouri University student, who washitchhiking home, stopped in for a bottleof soda pop. The hawk caught his eye.

“Oh, my,” the boy said, “What is he?”

“Son, that’s a Missouri eagle,” saidEmmett in his most scholarly voice.

“Gee, would you sell him?”

“Oh, I don’t know if I could. They’rerare, you know.”

This only whetted the student’s desireto possess the bird. “I’ll give you 10 dol-lars,” he said.

“I’m lettin’ him go mighty cheap,” saidEmmett, “but I can see you’re a bird loverand that you’ll give him good care. It’s adeal.”

The last we saw of the student, he washitchhiking east on 40, suitcase in onehand, and hawk tied to the other wrist. Thatold bird was flapping his wings, threateningto lift the kid right off his feet, but he wasn’tabout to let his “eagle” get away.

My eyes started going bad in the 1950s,but before I bought prescription glasses, Iused to go to the dime store and buy a pairwith magnifying lenses for a quarter. I’dtake a cigarette pack along and search fora pair strong enough to enable me to readthe fine print on the pack. I only wore theglasses when I read chauffeurs’ licenses oftruckers who stopped at the scale house.One day I was in Emmett’s store and no-ticed him making out a sales receipt toBoyd Gouldy. Emmett was squinting andholding the receipt close to his eyes to seethe print. I pulled out my 25 cent glasses.“Here, Emmett try these,” I said. Of course,those lenses magnified the writing so hecould read it fine.

“Oh, boy,” said Emmett, “these are keen.Where’d you get ‘em?”

“Emmett, I’ve had those for years.They’re special-made. Really fine glasses.”

“What would you take for ‘em?”

“Gosh, Emmett,” I said, “I’d hate to partwith those. I need them in my work ... but Iguess I could let you have them for five dol-lars.

He gave me five and I gave him theglasses. Emmett’s boy, George, and BoydGouldy, who was a huge fellow, werestanding there, and I think they suspectedsomething was up, but neither said a word.

Then Emmett turned around, still wear-ing the glasses, and bumped into Boyd.“That’s pretty good,” said George. “Yougave five dollars for a pair of glasses andthen run into the biggest man in CallawayCounty.”

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A circus caravan broke down one time atKingdom City and the animal trailers wereparked in the driveway to Emmett’s store.Things were quiet at the scales, so I closedup and strolled over to look at the animals.One cage held a pair of lions. The malewas a mean sonofabuck. I was standingthere with a bunch of kids watching himwhen Emmett came out with a pan of water,which he slid through the slot in the cage.The male lion drank the water, thenchomped down on the pan with his teethand crushed it.

“Wow, did you see that?” said the kids.We were all impressed.

Emmett went back inside the store andcame out with a set of keys. “Well, I’ve wa-tered him” he said, putting a key into thelock. “Now I’m going to take him out andgraze him.” Those kids and I took off downthe highway in a mad race—and I wasleading at the quarter!

Back in the 1960s when Sterling Greenwas still a trooper and stationed at Mont-gomery City, he kept after me to comedown and go fishing with him. I met himone morning and we went to this small lakehe’d been saying was a good place. He’dbrought his boat and electric motor and westarted across the water. The fellow whoowned the lake was sitting there on thebank watching us.

“Over on the other side is where I’vebeen catching them,” said Sterling. “Thisspot usually isn’t too good.”

While he maneuvered the boat I cast myplug and caught a bass, not a big one, buta keeper. “Here, Sterling, put him on thestringer,” I said. While he was stringing thebass, I caught another one. “Uh, Sterling,would you mind stringing this one, too?”He strung the second one.

We continued across the lake buthadn’t gone 50 feet until I hooked anotherfish. While I reeled it in, I hollered over atthe owner of the lake. “Say, this fellow,Green, he don’t fish much, does he?”

So I’m bringing in my catch and Iglanced back at Green, and I can see I’mbeginning to get his goat, but I can’t resistrubbing it in a little further. “Say, Sterling,I’ve got a good one this time,” I tell him.

I pulled my plug out of the water and, loand behold, there were two fish on theline, both of them nice bass. I unhookedthem and threw them in the bottom of theboat toward Green. “Could you put thoseon the stringer, too, Sterling?” I said.

He’d had enough. We hadn’t evenreached his favorite spot and I’d caughtfour fish. “No! I’m not touchin’ ‘em!” heroared. “Not ‘til I get my bait in the water!”

I spent a lot of time with the officers,fishing and hunting when we were offduty, and riding with them when they pa-trolled the highways. I liked them all. Thefellows still drop by the house occasion-ally to talk, and Kenny Miller, who’s aboutto retire himself, always stops in when heworks on holidays. But I don’t miss work-ing; permanent vacation is just fine.

Since I retired, Martha and I don’t travelmuch outside the Fulton area—we neverdid — and we don’t go to retirement par-ties. I didn’t want one myself, so now Idon’t go to other people’s. We visit friendsand play pitch with my brothers and theirwives and find plenty to occupy our time.Why, I’m running around so much now do-ing things I have to do, I don’t know how Imanaged to get everything done while Iwas working.”

(This interview took place in 1980. WeightInspector Herb H. Lee died March 3,1985.)

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INTERVIEWS

2005

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Mr. Harry W. Duncan was the Patrol’sfirst radio operator—hired in 1937. Hewas also the first director of Communica-tions, a position he held for over 25 years.Harry seemed unaware of his importancein Patrol history and questioned why he“was receiving this attention”. Harry andthe other early Patrol employees were re-sponsible for making the Patrol what it istoday. They built the foundation for what isnow the nationally recognized agencyknown as the Missouri State Highway Pa-trol.

Harry was born in Nevada, Missouri,the oldest son of Michael and SallyDuncan. His younger brother, Raymond,is deceased.

“We were poor people just like every-one else at that time. I was the first per-son in the family on either side tograduate from high school and the first tograduate from college. I graduated fromNevada High School. That building is nolonger there; businesses are there now.When I went to high school there was onlyone student who had a car. He lived in thecountry and had to have it.”

Harry attended Central Missouri StateUniversity in Warrensburg, Missouri,where he earned a bachelor’s of sciencedegree in history in 1935. He would con-tinue his education, by doing graduatework at the University of Missouri-Colum-bia during the summers in 1936 and 1937.

“My parents paid my rent at college.For $5 per month I got a room and hadkitchen privileges in the basement. Iworked at a grocery store and earned $2a week for one day of work. That coveredfood expenses. If I took my girl to theshow on a date, I could do it for 75 cents:

HARRY W. DUNCAN

25 cents apiece for the show, and moneyfor a Coke afterward.

I assumed I’d be a teacher, which I wasfor three years, in Milo, Missouri, south ofNevada. Then I joined the Patrol. When Iwas a kid in high school, I got very inter-ested in things connected with radio,which was new at that time. I pursued iton my own and I passed a governmentexam to be an amateur radio operator. Iwas interested in it as a hobby.

In college, I met and became friendswith a man who became a member of thePatrol. When, in 1937, the Patrol decidedto create a radio division, he called meand told me to take the test. That inter-ested me and I did so. I passed the examand went to work for the Patrol. JayBryant, who became a sergeant, was theone who called me. He left the Patroleventually to take a better job with GE. Idon’t think I had any preconceived notionsof the Patrol. I was focused on my littlearea of expertise.

At this time, there were no troop build-ings for A-F, as there are today. It’s inter-

Harry W. Duncan

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esting—the Patrol was so much smaller. Ithink there were about four girls whoworked in the office. There wasn’t but onecaptain working at GHQ. The captain wasBob Moore and he was stationed at GHQ.Tillie Sonnen ran the office. She would putout orders. One was, “These young radiomen coming in here will not date anyonein the office.” That wouldn’t work verywell, and the first thing you’d know, we’dbe sneaking out with those girls and hav-ing fun!

The Patrol was in the Capitol at thattime, and we didn’t have an office muchbigger than this apartment. I was the firstoperator and then it finally got built up toabout 20 I think. They started training inthe dome of the Capitol. Originally, the ra-dio station WOS was up there. You tookan elevator up three floors and thenwalked up some stairs.

We tried to be very professional. Ifsomeone pronounced a word wrong wetold him. We had one boy say, “They haveset up a ‘bear cage’ ... ”, instead of ‘barri-cade’. We told him about it. The trainingwas setting up fake radio equipment,making broadcasts, and critiquing themlater. We had to know the county names,county seats, and the highway names. Wemade up the training as we went along.

When we started we had threeradiomen at each troop. We had six sta-tions at that time. If anyone took a day off,the other two had to work 12-hour shifts!In effect, you never had a day off. Asmoney was appropriated, they hired moreoperators. I’d say that went on for threeyears. To the best of my knowledge, onlytwo original radiomen are still living Gar-land Winn (Macon) and myself. I will be92 on May 7, 2005.

We gave call letters and time every 30minutes to let them know we were alive.Summaries were given twice a day, whenyou read all the criminal activity we hadthat day. You might have one where

someone raided a henhouse and stole abunch of Rhode Island Red chickens.Cows in the road happened, too.

I was the first chief operator at GHQ/Troop F. As we grew, I became a systemchief operator, supervising all the chief op-erators at other stations. We’d call thechief operators in two or three times peryear for meetings trying to improve ouroperations.

Radio Headquarters was in old Troop FHeadquarters, about a mile outside oftown (McCarty Street). It seemed nice tous, since we didn’t have anything before.It was a little crowded, actually. The radiotransmitters took up a lot of room. Theshop was at one end. The building wasmore communications than it was Troop F.

When we built the Patrol stations at dif-ferent places in the state, I think the landwas donated by the local city where it wasbuilt. I know this was true at Lee’s Sum-mit—I was there. I know Lee’s Summitwas the first one built. I don’t rememberthe sequence of the other buildings built.

I remember Otto Viets, the first captainat Troop A. He had a German accent. TheTroop A grounds had a hedge aroundthem. Otto was proud of that hedge. Oneday I went to Troop A, and there was Otto,in full uniform, trimming that hedge him-self.

In 1940s, storms were a big thing to thePatrol. We did a lot of broadcasting. Ama-teur radio operators would give us reportson the weather to broadcast.

I remember one conversation withHugh Waggoner. He was a friend of thegovernor, and later the Patrol’s superin-tendent. There was too much rain, andthere was some worry Bagnell Dam mightfail. So, they sent a contingent of officersthere to do what they could to protect livesand property. I was on the radio talking toHugh, and we were trying to get suppliesfor these men. We told him see about se-curing some donated candy bars. Whenhe found out how many he was picking up

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This photo shows an early Troop B radio room.

Harry Duncan supervises com-munications employees.

Harry W. Duncan, the first radiooperator hired by the Patrol, 1937.

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he said, “Hell, I’ll eat that many before Iget back.” Had to be early in Hugh’s ca-reer, he was at Lebanon. Guess it was nolater than the mid ‘40s.

In the ‘40s, we couldn’t hire radio op-erators. They had gone to war. We hiredsome ladies. There were strong feelingsabout that. Some thought ladies wouldn’tbe able to handle the stress in an emer-gency. The Patrol furnished a car to gopick them up and take them home.

K.K. Johnson got the first radio put inhis car. We used to have trouble talking toLebanon. The radio took up much of thetrunk — it was three feet wide and a foottall.

At that time, we didn’t have many offic-ers on the road late at night. Got a calldown Highway 50. There was a riot andthey wanted a trooper to come quickly. Itook the call and told Roy Keller — he’dhave to go. I went back to my radio. After10-15 minutes I noticed he hadn’t left. Hewas putting on his uniform. I said, ‘Ser-geant, they needed help immediately.’ Hesaid he’d take his time and, ‘It’d be overbefore I get there.’

I became director of Radio as of 1947,and still had an office at Troop F. A build-ing was built across the driveway to workon cars and install radios. We convertedthe old repair area attached to Troop Finto offices. There was a little bit of contro-versy: Where did I belong? I’ll admit therewere some advantages being out at TroopF.

The prison riot of 1954 stands out. Youtrain people to do their job, but when anemergency arrives it seems difficult forthem not to revert to other things. For ex-ample, there were signals we used tomake sure understandable communica-tions would take place between twopeople. In an emergency, people wouldjust start talking. We set up a small radiostation at the prison during the riot and Iwas there. We had communications with

key people, but didn’t have walkie-talkies.I remember the troopers stopped theircars, took their keys, and left their carsblocking traffic.

In those days I reported directly to thesuperintendent and was a member of staffwho met every Monday morning. You getinto the administrative part of the job —budgets. You convince people to buythings that would help the Patrol. My su-perintendents were always generous inincluding the funds we thought weneeded. It was up to the Legislaturewhether we got the money.

I used to go with Hugh Waggoner totestify before the finance committees. Hehad a wonderful way. If he wanted arather large appropriation, they wouldn’ttalk about the money much. Some legisla-tor would ask, “How come you’re usingthese Dodges?” They’d get to talkingabout the cars and such and would passthe request without much consideration.

I wonder how cell phones havechanged Patrol communications. When Iwas there we had one telephone line andyou could call anywhere in the state ofMissouri. They’d call in on the radio andtell someone to call them. I believe youcould call out, but couldn’t call in ... notsure. Usually, communications like thiswould be something that needed to bediscussed or maybe personal.

MULES (Missouri Law EnforcementSystem) came about in the late ‘60s.There was a federal grant for improve-ment of the police communications sys-tem in Missouri. Kansas City and St. Louispolice departments and the Patrol wereinvolved and divvying up this money. Theguy from Kansas City came up with thatname (MULES). I got in on those kinds ofthings not because I was important, butbecause the assistant superintendent orthe superintendent, who didn’t know muchabout communications and needed infor-mation about technical questions. It was apretty smooth transition into MULES.

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Originally, we had teletypes in the Pa-trol headquarters. Then, the St. Louis CityPolice Department had a small computerset up. They were ahead of us—they ar-ranged to switch our machines. When wegot our computer system, we did awaywith teletypes.

Before MULES, if someone wanted alicense, you typed it into the teletype.Someone at the Capitol looked it up andtyped it back. If we could do that in 30minutes, we thought that was good. Had ateletype at GHQ and in the motor vehicledepartment. Employees were therearound the clock. Jim Wollenburg was in-strumental in the motor vehicle depart-ment.

I was chairman of the committee in thelate ‘60s that purchased computers for thePatrol, which used up a whole room. Iwent to New York where IBM put on aschool for police executives. That meansColonel Waggoner should have gone, but

he didn’t want to. He said, “You go.” I hada little experience with computers. Peopledidn’t understand computers in thosedays. When we decided to make thismove, it was thought an officer would beable to check a license at the scene. Itwasn’t long before it branched out into allkinds of things — and wasn’t just for en-forcement. Then, the FBI got into the busi-ness. We soon communicated with theFBI, St. Louis, and Kansas City. (St. Louisand Kansas City had their own systems.)Then, it branched into counties and cities.

People in our department and in thePatrol’s computer section trained otheragencies. It took three days of training orso. When people began to “come on-line”Joe Wykoff would go out there and trainthem.

Ernest Van Winkle and I started the Pa-trol annual golf tourney. Mike Hockadaywas the superintendent at the time. Hegave us the nod to go ahead and do it. Itwas at Meadow Lake Acres Country Club(Jefferson City). It was deemed a suc-cess, because they’ve done it every yearsince. It was passed on to Vincel Maxey,who continued the tradition. Then theymoved it to the Lake of the Ozarks andwent to different places.

I was working for the Patrol in JeffersonCity when I met my wife, Margaret. Up onHigh Street there was a drug store calledCrown Drug Store. You could get a cup ofcoffee, two strips of bacon, one egg, andtoast for 18 cents. I went there frequentlyfor breakfast. A young lady operating aSally Ann “ladies ready to wear” storecame in there, and we got to know oneanother. When our daughter arrived, shequit and sold the business in 1952. Ourdaughter, Kathryn Jo Duncan Ford, is aretired schoolteacher. She taught vocalmusic in Clinton, Missouri, and in BlueSprings, Missouri. We also have twograndchildren and one great-granddaugh-ter.

Harry Duncan fills the role of a motoristbeing assisted by Tpr. Paul V. Volkmerin this media picture.

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My daughter married a boy who, at thetime, we weren’t too happy about. But, hewas an Eagle Scout, as well as a musicteacher, and I told my wife that was good.He turned out to be a fine fella. Margaretand I were married 64 years. We had ar-guments along the way, but we got overthem. We never argued about money. Wehad enough and she wasn’t a spendthrift.We didn’t save a lot ... not much to savewhen you make $150 a month.” (Margaretdied in November 2004.)

“I was always very happy with the Pa-trol. It treated me fairly. I didn’t makemuch money, but it was a pleasant way tomake a living. I spent 36 years with thePatrol, and was never reprimanded orcalled to explain any of my actions. I hada pleasant, satisfying career. I started at$145 per month—more than the $80 I wasmaking teaching school. I think my high-est salary was $1,200. A law in the 1940s

In the 1950s, chief operators were called together for a meeting. Pictured are: (frontrow, l to r) Frank Huber, Orville Alexander, C.M. Cox, Harry Duncan; (middle row)George Wallis, Norm Harrison, Garland Winn, Parker Kilby; (back row) JackScroggin, J.R. Bass, ? Lukenbill, and J.R. Bowers. (Harry’s note: Lukenbill was asmart guy. We sent him places and he’d enroll in community college. He got an elec-trical engineering degree, quit us, and got a high-powered job in California.)

made the director of communications amember of the Patrol. I retired at the rateof a captain.”

(This interview took place in April 2005.Harry died on March 11, 2006.)

Harry W. Duncan, 2005

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Retired Sergeant Tom West Pasley—now, there’s an icon. After a 48-year ca-reer in law enforcement Tom is respectedand well known. As a member of the Pa-trol, he worked the road, taught recruits,was assigned to the pistol team, rode amotorcycle as part of the Safety Squad-ron, and represented the Patrol in Wash-ington, D.C., twice. He also designed thePatrol’s door decal, which is still used onpatrol cars today. Tom’s strong voice re-lated one story after another as he sharedphotos, newspaper clippings, and his car-toons. At 90, he still exemplifies strengthand authority, with a bit of ornery.

Tom Pasley was born in Fulton, Mis-souri. His father died when he was young,so his mother, Alice Lorraine Pasley,raised him. He graduated from FultonHigh School in 1934. Before joining thePatrol, Tom attended the Southeast StateTeachers College in Cape Girardeau, Mis-souri, where he majored in commercialand industrial art.

“I want to take you way back, now. I be-lieve you’ve heard this. [Sergeant] BenBooth, badge 13, was killed. Two peoplerobbed a bank in Mexico, cut across, andcame down 63. Ben Booth and the SheriffRoger Wilson were sitting at the intersec-tion of 63 and 40. They had received infor-mation by telephone; no radios back then.Booth and Wilson started across the high-way and were shot and killed. That was in1933.

Three years later, in 1936, I skippedschool in Cape Girardeau, and went to theCity Hall in Fulton. They were tearing theside out of a barn by the courthouse. Iheard a thump... thump ... thump. Theywere determining the length of rope to

THOMAS W. PASLEY

hang George McKeever [who had killedBooth]. They tested the rope by wetting itdown and putting a sandbag on the endthe same weight as the man that was go-ing to hang. They’d drop the sandbag re-peatedly. This will stretch the rope. If therope is too long, the man strangles, if therope is too short, it will take off the man’shead. I lived one block from the court-house where this hanging took place.

I washed motorcycles for some of theguys (troopers) that had motorcycles inFulton. I went up to Highway 54 and EastFifth Street and saw the first trooper tocome to Fulton after graduation. I was inawe. Over time, I developed severaltroopers as friends. Poodle Breid was afriend, and I owe him a lot. He helped meget on the Patrol.”

Tom joined the Patrol in 1939, attend-ing recruit training at Camp Kaiser at theLake of the Ozarks.

“Camp Kaiser had one large buildingand no facilities of any kind. It was theend of November, so they issued us two

Tpr. Tom Pasley

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blankets. We had to go to another buildingto take care of needs. Captain Wallis wasone of the teachers, Johnson, also. All ofthem took turns. Hockaday and Brighamwere there. I was tickled to death withtraining; I learned something. But, I didn’tenjoy our quarters. All four sides of ourcabin were on hinges, which were lifted upduring the summer to cool the building.We had a water bucket in case of fire.Many mornings, it was froze solid.”

Tom still has the training manual hewas issued in 1939 as a member of the4th Recruit Class. Upon graduating, hisfirst assignment was Troop C, Kirkwood.

“Our area went down to Festus andCrystal City and up to Quincy. I got introuble there once.

J.W. Whan and I roomed together. Hewas a brilliant man. You know, every nighthe wrote a letter to his girlfriend. At thattime, we had to drive our cars to head-quarters in Kirkwood and get a patrol carfor our 12-hour tour of duty. There was atrain track on the way. He stopped at thetrack and I told him we better go. He said,

“No, that’s all right.” That was the secondday I was there. At Troop C, there was alog downstairs and you had to sign in.When we got there, I heard footstepscoming down the steps. It was the ser-geant.

He said, “Whan, Pasley, when I sayeight o’clock, I mean eight o’clock, andnot two minutes after.” We didn’t wait for atrain ever again.

I was laying in my bed one night and Iheard a, “Wham!” Whan discharged hisrevolver and he shot a hole in the bed. Wekept that quiet.

On Christmas Eve, I got a call to High-way 30. It was close to midnight. I gotdown there and there was a young ladythere who was dead. Back then, therewasn’t a radio or phone. A neighborstopped and told me who she was, andthat she lived in a house nearby. I had togo tell the family. They were all around theChristmas tree waiting for her to arrive.That was the hardest thing I ever had todo.

To show you how things have changed,I want to tell you a story. A manhunt tookplace in Mokane off Highway 94. (Backwhen I started they didn’t have radios inthe cars. But, there were telephones in fill-ing stations along the highway.) Therewas a big Army plane flying around duringthat manhunt. When they flew over, theycouldn’t identify the patrol cars. They toldthe troopers to put their handkerchief onthe roof held in place with rocks.

About ten years later, I was on top ofevery car painting numbers on the car roofand signs on the doors. I asked ColonelWaggoner, “Do I have to wear my uni-form?” He said no, so I got on my motor-cycle with a quart of white paint and abrush. I went all over the state painting. Isaved them a lot of money!

I have spent a lot of time at the StateFair. I liked it. I got to go the first year Iwas eligible, in 1940. We brought in the

Sgt. Tom Pasley and Tpr. Russell G.“Poodle” Breid ride their Patrol motor-cycles in a parade.

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Safety Squadron and worked traffic upthere that year. We kept the carniessquared away.

I think the Safety Squadron was one ofthe best things the Patrol ever did. Not be-cause I was part of it, but the way they didit. The “little general” Captain Bob Mooretook care of the squadron. He was thebrains behind it. We could only ride thewhite safety squadron motorcycles whenwe were together as a squadron. The littlegeneral knew a lot of people, and got usthose motorcycles. AAA was always outthere with us. There were 10 of us, thelittle general, and he had two sergeants;13 total.

Each of us worked a two-mile stretch.We did a lot of good—stopping people forevery little thing. If a taillight had a chip init, we stopped them. They probably didn’tknow about it. We just talked to them,wrote them a warning, and sent them ontheir way. You pull into town with 13 whitemotorcycles, and people just stand andstare at you.

I got along with the little general allright. Do you know how we made oursquadron hat stay on?” Tom pretended tospit into his hand, “We wiped that on thatlip.”

“When we rode our motorcycles, thegrommet holding the badge on our billedhats would hit against our forehead. Thatcould wear a hole in your forehead.

I was driving on Highway 66 late atnight. A car kept following me andwouldn’t pass me, a bluish green Ply-mouth. I pulled over on the side and hewent by. Well, I pulled him over. The carwas stolen and he was AWOL from theMarines. At that time in history, we hardlyever prosecuted for stolen vehicles. ThePatrol got $25 when AWOL soldiers wereturned over to the Marine Corps. I tookhim to Marine Headquarters in St. Louis,and that lieutenant told me that Marineuniform would look on me. So, I joined. Ilooked for that lieutenant while I was overthere.”

On September 24, 1942, Tom left forthe U.S. Marines. He returned March 15,1946.

“Colonel Waggoner called me one dayand told me to meet him at Lambert Air-port. We flew in a DC3—that’s just an oldtin box. We went to President Truman’sHighway Safety Conference. There wasan officer from every state there. I’mproud of this. We were all standing aroundwaiting for them to figure where we were

In the early‘40s, TomPasley trav-eled the statepainting num-bers on everypatrol car.

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going to stand and have a picture taken.One person suggested I stand next toTruman, because I was a Missouritrooper. There was a colonel there fromanother state who wanted all the attention.He didn’t like that idea. Then, someonesuggested we draw numbers. Theypassed out numbers, and I was the lastone to get a number. I got number one.

You know, Colonel Waggoner wantedeverything just so. He wanted troopersclean and neat. And, remember, he wasthere with me. We were outside for thepicture. The Marine band was there.

One of them motioned me over andsaid, “We took a count of the best dressedofficers. Now, what do you wear duringthe week?”

I said, “Well, this is what I wear everyday.” They didn’t believe me. The wholeband voted. They each wrote on a pieceof paper who they thought had the bestuniform. They voted and I came out ontop. Colonel Waggoner was tickled bythat.

One day, Waggoner called in two of us.“Pasley, you go to Mexico,” he said. Hetold the other trooper to go to Camdenton.We got outside the other guy was mum-bling about the hick town of Camdenton. I

told him if he didn’t want to go, I’d go. Wegot Colonel Waggoner’s permission andswitched. When you moved toCamdenton, you had to be on your toesall the time. The colonel and governorwere both from Lebanon. They camehome about every other week, traveledthrough Camdenton.”

On September 1, 1946, Tom trans-ferred to Troop F, Camdenton, MO.

“First day I came down to Camdenton,they said they’d found a headless woman.The next morning, I woke up and was toldthey’d found a headless woman. I said, “Iknow.” They said they’d found anotherone. They found them under a bridge.Kate’s sister knew the two of them. Theywere mother and daughter. The investiga-tors went to the house. It had new paintand wallpaper. They solved it when oneinvestigator knocked over a chair, andthere was blood under it.”

Tom’s wife, Kate, remembered thecase, adding, “My sister had a restaurantand I helped out in there. They had heardabout the women, and asked me about it.I said, ‘Yes, they did find a mother anddaughter who were headless.’”

This photo was taken in Washington, D.C., and included representatives from otherstate police agencies. Tpr. Tom Pasley is in the center, top row.

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A little boy in the restaurant piped upand asked, “How did they know they werewomen if they didn’t have a head?”

Tom laughed and resumed speaking.“They had a drunk come to town and theyarrested him. Sheriff says, “Can’t do any-thing with him, he gets drunk every time.”I told the sheriff to call me next time. Wetook him down to the basement where themorgue was and put him in a casket. Weturned all the blue lights down low. We allsat around watching him until he came to.He never came to town drunk again.

There was a little town south ofCamdenton named Macks Creek. Thatwas in my territory. One day, I received acall from Mrs. Creach, who I later foundout, was Ross Creach’s mother. [Rosswas killed in the line of duty in 1943.] Mrs.Creach ran a hotel (a big hotel for MacksCreek). They would sit out on the balconyand watch the cars go by. On Saturdaynights, the men drinking at the tavernwould relieve themselves between acouple of the buildings. They had a con-test to see who could relieve themselvesthe highest on the building. People at thehotel tried to get something done about it,but couldn’t. When Mrs. Creach called

me, I told her to call me when it was hap-pening.

The next weekend, I got a call that itwas going on. When I got there, I arresteda man named Gill. I took him in to thejudge. Gill got a big kick out of this. Thejudge read the information to him andasked him how he pleaded. Gill pled guiltyand seemed to be proud of it. The judgefined him $1 and court costs, and said,“Next time, I’ll double it.”

The next week, the same thing hap-pened, and I took him in. The judge finedhim $2 and court costs. The same contin-ued on the weekends for awhile. Oneweek, the fine was up to $10 or 12 dollars.Gill was enjoying this. That week, I tookhim in to see Mrs. Ida Bobbett, a newlyelected magistrate. She asked him, “Howdo you plead?” He laughed and said,“Guilty.” She asked the prosecutor whatthe maximum fine was. Well, the prosecu-tor didn’t know. So, he told her $1,000 andcosts. She looked over her glasses andsaid, “Mr. Gill, your fine is $500 and costs.Next time, I’ll double it.”

Those people were happy they couldsit on their balcony. They sent me a box ofcigars. But, Patrol troopers couldn’t ac-

cept favors. So, I took themback and told them Icouldn’t accept the cigars.Col. Hugh Waggoner heardabout the case and calledme. He asked if I’d madean arrest and if I’d beengiven a gift. I told him yes.

Tpr. Tom Pasley speakswith a violator and hispassenger.

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He told me to go back to them and tellthem Col. Waggoner said it was OK forme to have those cigars. The governorheard about it too. I think they got a kickout of that case.

That little town had a lot of problemswhen I got there. Later, those people triedto elect me mayor!

I got my mail in the Camdenton postoffice. Every once in a while, I noticed alittle, dark-haired woman in there. Mymother wrote me quite often. I thought mymail was being opened, but I found outlater it wasn’t.”

Tom’s wife, Kate, finished the story,“Your mother’s letters were neveropened.” (Tom laughed at this and agreedwith a twinkle in his eye, “I know that.”) “Ithought it was his wife. So, I asked him ifLorraine Pasley was his wife. He told meit was his mother.

I worked in the post office. I put a lot ofjunk mail in his box. It was quite a whilebefore he asked me for a date. He askedme once if I was doing anything that night.I went home and told my mother I’ve got adate with the new trooper in town. Shesaid maybe I’d get home early for once. I

was always about midnight getting homebecause my sister had a dance place. Iloved to square dance and we squaredanced every night up there.

He came and got me in a little roadster.We started out and I asked where wewere going. He said, ‘We’re goin’ froggin’.’We went down to a place on the lake. Hehad a little boat. We got in and took off. Bythe time we came home, we had a sackfull of frogs. As we were coming home, hedrove that old wooden boat up on a stobin the middle of the lake, and we couldn’tget off it. He said, ‘Get in the front, get inthe back.’ We tried everything to get free. Igot home at four o’clock in the morning.Needless to say, my mother was very up-set. It was hard to explain we got hung upon a log.”

Tom and Kate have been married 55years.

“Ole Brigham took me to recruit trainingto help him. I was with him during a lot ofrecruit training. I went with him to train the1946 Recruit Class. It was, “Tommy this,and Tommy that.” He had a deep, gravellyvoice. One Sunday, Brig said, “Tommy,

Ret. Sgt. TomPasley taught sev-eral recruit classes.Here he is an instruc-tor for the 1946 Re-cruit Class.

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line them up and take them to church—khaki uniform and black necktie.”

I got out there, and out of all the re-cruits one of them had a pink necktie. Outof 40 some recruits, every one of themwas perfect except that one. I asked him ifhe had a black necktie. He said, “I’ll wearwhat I want to wear.”

I turned around and went to Brig, andtold him about it. He said, “Get his gearand take him home.” That’s the way theydid it then.

When they got to horsing around,Brigham would say, “Tommy, have themfall in.”

We sent them out into a gooseberrypatch with a can, and told them not tocome back until the can was full. We’dhave gooseberry cobbler for weeks afterthat.”

On January 1, 1950, Tom was pro-moted to sergeant and assigned to TroopI, Rolla.

“My first duty was to carry girls intowork. It was a new building and there wasnothing but mud. We’d pick them up andcarry them in. Didn’t know I was gettingpaid for that.

I went to Washington, D.C., to [Presi-dent Dwight D.] Eisenhower’s inaugura-tion parade. I was part of the Missouri

delegation. I rode my motorcycle. J.L.Murphy and C.M. Parker were part of thegroup.

In September 1954, I got a telephonecall saying they were having a riot inJefferson City, at the penitentiary. I wastold to pick up the captain and head north.Captain Howard didn’t say much all theway there.

He told me, “Sergeant, keep it betweenthe fence posts.”

Now, let me tell you what Jones had tosay. [Bud] Jones was flying the airplane.The colonel called him and Jones said,“Colonel, it looks like Christmas.” He saw

Tom Pasley was known for hissense of humor and his artisticabilities. Shown here is one ofmany cartoons he drew.

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On Monday, May 23, 2005, Tom turned90.

“I told him we were going to have abirthday party for him,” said Kate. “He saidthat’s all right. His birthday was Mondaythe 23rd and we had it the 22nd. I askedhim, ‘What do you want to wear to thebirthday party?’ He asked what I meant,and I told him we were going up to thecommunity center for his party. He thoughtit was going to be at home! It was wonder-ful. You wouldn’t believe all the trooperswho came.”

Tom and Kate have two sons, Tommyand Jim. Tommy and his family live inRolla; Jim and his family live in Winona,Missouri. They have five grandchildren.

(This interview took place in July 2005.)

all the red lights coming down the high-ways.

He was looking at the red lights of pa-trol cars on the highways coming into Jef-ferson City. We got there and went in andstopped the riot. Barton and Brighamwere in front of me when we went into thedormitory. One of the convicts threw abarrel down, and one of them shot thatguy. He tumbled down over the rails.

When the riot was over, we weremarching a group to the dining room.They had to hold their hands behind theirheads. One of the prisoners, his pantscame down around his ankles. Hereached down to pull them up and one ofthe other prisoners said, “Don’t pull thosepants up, they’ll shoot you!”

I also spent some time in Boonville. Wewent up to the Boonville Reformatory andtook it over.

I was a member of the pistol team. Wetraveled often to matches. The colonelsent me to Texas to school to learn toaccurize the pistols — to take them apartand tighten everything. The pistol teamwas an assignment. Sometimes, the colo-nel traveled with us. We practiced a lot.

I retired from the Patrol on April 1,1972. Then, I became sheriff of PhelpsCounty in November 1972. The differencebetween being a trooper and being sheriffwas I didn’t have anyone to go to for ad-vice. Sheriff who’d just left—I didn’t wanthis advice. All the responsibility is on yourhands. It was hard to get good deputies.The county had 12.”

“Tom served 48 years as a law man,”said Kate proudly.

Tom shared some cartoons he madewhile teaching recruits in 1946. The car-toons included O.L. Wallis, J.S. Poage,P.E. Corl, and H.H. Waggoner. Kateadded that Tom made all the signs he putout during his sheriff’s campaign. “Theywere beautiful, big signs.”

Ret. Sgt. Tom West Pasley and hiswife, Kate, in their kitchen, 2005.

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Lt. Walter E. Wilson, retired, has thedistinction of being the oldest living retireeof the Missouri State Highway Patrol. Hejoined the Patrol in 1942, at the age of 32.At 97, his memory is still sharp, as is hissense of humor. After all these years, hispride in the Patrol and his work stillshows. Lt. Wilson shared his scrapbooksand his recollections ...

I was born in Sedalia, Missouri, andhad a brother, James, who was two yearsolder. He is deceased. My parents wereHildred Elliott of Sedalia, and George ofKansas City. We lived in Sedalia. It was arailroad town. My dad worked all his lifefor the KATY railroad. When the depres-sion hit, all the banks in Sedalia closed.There were two railroads and each had ashop of a thousand men. So, my dad wasout of work.

During that time, I went to SmithcottonHigh School in Sedalia. I was the firstclass in that high school—a freshman—when it was built. The reason it’s knownas Smithcotton was because that was thename of the people who owned all thatarea. Their home was still sitting there—huge home. Their back door was right atthe high school’s front door. Of course,they finally tore it down.

I went out for sports; was football cap-tain. My coach was from Maryville Col-lege. He said, “If you went up there andplayed football, I’ll get you a job.” Whichhe did—got me a job in a drugstore. Iworked most of my young life in drugstores. I went two years and that’s whenthe hard times struck, so I quit college andwent to work full time. Then, I went towork at Medal Gold Ice Cream. I worked

WALTER E. WILSON

for them for a couple of years, and atRainbow Bread Company for 12 years.

Another reason I went to Maryville wasthere were no jobs in Sedalia. Sedaliawas in a state of panic almost. On the wayto Maryville, there were a lot of gravelroads in those days.

During the time I worked for the bakery,I had a bad accident. The accident wasn’trelated to my work, just happened in thattime frame. I busted my knee and leg andwas in the hospital six weeks. I’d been inbed for four weeks with sandbags andthat’s where I met my wife [Orpha Yates].She was my nurse. I thought, “Boy, I’vefinally met her.” She had to work anotheryear before she could get married. Theywouldn’t let her be a nurse and be mar-ried, or something like that.

In the meantime, I rented a house andwe filled it with furniture and bought a newcar. She was still working at the MissouriMethodist Hospital where she’d gotten herschooling. When she finished, we were allset up, and got married. She was an RN

Sgt. Walter E. Wilson

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for 35 years. When we lived in Chillicothe,she was the county nurse.

We had two children. Roger became acorporal with the Highway Patrol, and wasstationed in Troop A. He has a degree inlaw enforcement from Maryville College.He lives in Carrollton, Missouri, having re-tired in 1994. Our daughter, Robin Wolff,graduated from KU with a degree in physi-cal therapy. She has lived in New YorkCity for 35 years. She has one son, inCalifornia, who builds satellites.

I became interested in the Highway Pa-trol and made application. CaptainRamsey over at Macon turned me downbecause I had dentures. Next year, I triedagain and made it. They put me in the Bu-reau of Identification for seven months.

My desk sat at Ginn’s back door. I wasin fingerprints. There was a red phoneright there beside me. I was at the deskmuch of the time. That darn thing finallyrang, and I fell out of my chair. The Patrolwas the first called if there was a majorevent in Missouri. I don’t know who it wasthat was supposed to call us ... But, when-ever something happened somewhere, aperson in the area would call. We had alist of places to call after that — sheriffsand whatever. GHQ was a real goodbunch of people. They were a pleasure towork with.

In GHQ at that time, I believe Capt.Hockaday was in charge. Sgt. K.K.Johnson was in charge of the fingerprintdivision. Tpr. Jenkins was in charge of fin-gerprints. Tpr. Liley was in charge of thelab. Berglund, I believe he was a trooperthen, was in charge of safety. I stayedthere seven months.

There were five of us in there. In De-cember 1942, Col. Ginn called us in oneat a time and I was the last. The other fourfailed to make it. So, when I went in, heextended his hand, and I thought, ‘Boythat’s a funny way to tell you, you didn’tmake it.’ But, I made it [into the Academy].

I was the only one of the five that madeit.”

Walter tested for the Academy inJefferson City, in the Selinger Centre ofSt. Peters Cathedral, which is next to theCapitol.

“I don’t remember how many candi-dates were in there. But, they had a drunkcome in and really “raise Cain”. It was partof the test, but we didn’t know it. After heleft, we were told to describe him andwhat he did.

I went to recruit training on December14, 1942. K.K. Johnson was in charge ofthe school at the Sedalia fairgrounds. Itwas for six weeks. I thought it was darnedhard. I was the only one who typed my re-ports in a school of 24 recruits. During thatyear, cars became very scarce, so wewere the only class who had to learn toride motorcycles.

Tpr. Brigham was in charge of athletics.After school, I was sent to Lebanon(Troop F). Sgt. Waggoner was in chargeof the zone. Marvin Taylor was the othertrooper. There were only three of us. OnHighway 66 is where I had my first assign-ment and where I made my first arrest.

I could say it like this. During the time Iwas on the road, I worked train wrecks,airplane crashes, bus crashes, and regu-lar accidents ... fatalities and all. Therewas one accident where the lady’s headwas severed. They had two little children,and they were both killed. I have a pictureof that—her with no head and hardly anybody, and two little feet sticking out in themess. That’s a tough picture to look at.

Whatever there was … I think I’veworked everything ... five tornadoes ... fivefloods. One time, Sgt. Waggoner and Iwere assigned to Bagnell Dam by thegovernor. The water was at the top of thedam, and they thought it would go out atany time. We spent two days there, 24hours a day, and kept the governor in-formed every 15 minutes through our Pa-

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trol channels. He wanted to know exactlywhat was going on. It was rising prettyfast. The water got clear to the top. Thedam held it—never did run over. I guess Iworked probably eight murders; investi-gated them. Usually found the culprit.

Of course, in those days, we workedeverything. Rapes ... burglaries … bankrobberies. We worked with FBI on bankrobberies. Anything that was a federal of-fense, we called up the FBI, and theywere good to call us.

I was in Lebanon about a year. Theygot short-handed in GHQ and they sentme back up there for a while. I worked ineverything in the Identification Bureau. Igot pretty tired of that. So, one day, I wentto Capt. Hockaday, who was in charge atthat time. I told him I had become a mem-ber of the Highway Patrol to work on theroad, not in an office. I was getting prettydesperate ... to go to him and tell him that.

So, Capt. Hockaday told me I could goto either Maryville or Chillicothe. I choseChillicothe. I’d gone to school in Maryville,and I thought, well, change would begood. We were working out of the Macontroop then. In 1946, they built Troop HHeadquarters over here, and putChillicothe in the Troop H area. At onetime, Tpr. Farmer and I worked eightcounties from the Iowa State Line to theMissouri River.

Trooper Farmer and I shot a guy andkilled him. It was by Chillicothe. It was thescariest thing that ever happened to me.There was an inquest the next morning. Iwondered what if they find us guilty? Whatwill they do? Give us 10 years in the peni-tentiary? Since I hollered three times,“This is the law, stop!” it was decided hehad been informed by the police officersufficiently. I’ve had about all the experi-ences you can have.

When I went over to Troop H; CaptainDuncan was the commanding officer. Imade sergeant in 1954. I was a zone ser-

geant. We went more by time than we didterritory. We had several zones around.Cameron was the closest, and there wasno zone in Savannah. We didn’t have a lotof men, so when I was on with anothercar, we had the whole St. Jo area. Weoverlapped Cameron and Maryville.

I didn’t mention that I started as anauxiliary patrolman. We went to schooland had uniforms. I helped out at a coupleof football games. The Capt. Davis I re-tired under was the same one who taughtme Patrol work when I was in the auxiliarypatrol. I believe he was a trooper then,maybe a sergeant, out of Lee’s Summit.Sergeants were few and far between then;lieutenants even less.

When I went on, we had boots,breeches, and caps. They were comfort-able. Looked pretty good in them. Thenwe went to the regular uniform blouse. Wewore a tie and the blouse in hot weather.We didn’t have any air conditioning. I for-get when they put that in. They wereafraid to put it in; afraid troopers wouldstay in the car and use it and the radio.That was their excuse at first.

When I went on our only radio wasWOS at the top of the Capitol in JeffersonCity. “Watch Our State” is what it stood for.They would call us two or three times, butwe had no way to answer them—no two-way radio. If we got it fine. If we didn’t getit, we didn’t get it. A lot of the time you’dmiss them. We didn’t know if they heardus or not. It was pretty much a one-waydeal. They called us and that was it.They’d tell us there was an accident at acertain place. They would repeat it two orthree times. We didn’t have a way to callthem back. That was the very beginning.

When I retired we didn’t have radios—couldn’t call sheriff or police. We could calljust our troop. That was better than WOS!

My first car had the red light and sirencombination on the left, front fender. Theymoved the one light to the top, and that

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was the first red light on the top. It wasabout four inches around. It was the onlylight we had. Can’t remember much aboutthe sirens.

I always did think when we stoppedsomebody, we didn’t have anything be-hind us. I always thought we should havesomething in our back window to warnpeople we were stopped. We pulledpeople over with no light ... taillights, ofcourse. But, we were just another car. Inever did submit that, however.

I was the first officer to escort the cen-ter striper for a period of a month. I stayedwith him while he was painting, for his pro-tection. We did a lot of that. Every sum-mer someone in each troop wasassigned. When I started I was out ofLebanon.

I made all of the riots. I was inJefferson City at that penitentiary riot forthree weeks.

I had just finished my evening mealwhen the signal came over my radio.“Proceed to Jefferson City at once, prisonriot in progress!” I was stationed in St. Jo-seph, so this meant a 200-mile run to thecentral part of Missouri. All the time, I keptlistening to my radio, I kept thinking, “Thiscan’t be true.” In Jefferson City, the situa-tion rapidly was becoming worse. Guardswere being held hostage, inmates werebeing carried on stretchers, injured anddead. Then, fire! Four buildings hit simul-taneously. Calls for more equipment werebeing heard by radio.

Trucks had pulled off all main highwaysto make clear sailing for the 245 highwaypatrol cars speeding to Jefferson City fromall parts of Missouri. Local police and townmarshals took up vantage points at dan-gerous intersections to help clear the way.At 10 p.m., I joined forces with about 100other troopers who had already arrived.

I was assigned to the deputy warden’soffice temporarily. Then, about midnight, Iwas reassigned to Tower 8, on the east

side of the prison wall. A guard and I wereto spend the remainder of the sleeplessnight 20 feet off the ground.

By now, I had learned what had hap-pened early the evening before. On thethird floor of the maximum-security sec-tion were 81 incorrigible prisoners. Two ofthe younger inmates faked illness. Whentwo guards went to determine the trouble,they were overpowered, as were addi-tional guards when prisoners releasedother inmates. For six hours, the placewas bedlam, men running, shouting, howl-ing, and fighting, robbing each other.

Apparently, the riot had been sparkedby a handful of hardened criminals, then ithad grown. As waves of rioters stormedthe deputy warden’s office, armed troop-ers on top of the one story Administrationbuilding were finally forced to open firewith submachine guns and riot guns toforce the desperate prisoners to flee theprison yard. This gunfire into the mass ofrioters seemed to break up the main at-tack.

Over 300 desperate rioters took astand of last resistance in “B” and “C” cellhouses. Shouts were heard defying troop-ers to, “Come and get us!” I was told toattend a meeting of all troopers at 7 a.m.the next morning for instructions to enterthe building 45 minutes later.

Out of the 300 Highway Patrolmen, 245members were present at the meeting.Eighteen men were chosen to lead thetroopers into the resistive looking building.I was one of the 18. The remaining troop-ers, together with 100 St. Louis police of-ficers, were stationed outside the buildingas a second line of defense.

We were heavily armed. The inmateswere shouting, cursing, and throwing ar-ticles of bedding, furniture, and personalbelongings. As we entered the door, wewere greeting by flying debris. A 50-poundblock of ice barely missed my head. Over

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a loud speaker, the convicts were orderedto get into the nearest cell and be quiet —or be shot! One failed to obey, and he wasshot.

There were about 25 cells. I was thesergeant in charge to go up there andbring all the men out. There were some-times as many as eight or 10 men in acell. They hung blankets, so we couldn’tsee them. They were hiding. First thing wedid was get rid of those blankets. Then,we brought them out one at a time,searched them, and a trooper escortedthem down where they were fingerprintedand sent back to their cells.

After the riot, they kept 12 of us over todo investigative work. I remained on dutyfor another 10 days. Four inmates hadbeen killed, 29 injured, and one attemptedsuicide. Four guards had been injured anddamage to the buildings amounted tonearly $5 million. But, not a single convicthad escaped the confines of the prisonwalls. Not one of the nearly 1,000 officershad been injured.

I was at Lincoln University riot for aweek. It was all black, then. We wentthere to control it and settle it ... as secu-rity. I was a sergeant during that riot.When you’re a sergeant or a lieutenant,you have most of the responsibility. Westayed pretty well together; worked as aunit.

I was at the Kansas City riot twice, forabout three days each. [This was afterMartin Luther King was assassinated.]During the Kansas City riot, I was a lieu-tenant. Sgt. Eader and I were assigneddowntown. I have a picture in my scrap-book of a patrol car on one of the mainstreets in Kansas City ... nothing else, justthe one car and two troopers. We put ev-eryone else to bed.

In those riots we didn’t take over. Weworked in conjunction with the KansasCity police. Of course we took over at thepenitentiary riot. Maryville College had a

riot and I was there. Warrensburg Collegehad a riot, too. I believe that’s all the riotswe had in Missouri.

Of course, the penitentiary riot atJefferson City was the biggest. I got per-mission from the colonel to write a storyfor Reader’s Digest. I sent it in, and that’sthe last I heard of it. It didn’t make it.

I was at the Boonville School for Boysfor 35 days. That was when the Patroltook over. Colonel Waggoner assignedTpr. Willie Barton—he was placed incharge.

The Patrol took over because of mis-management. The kids were killing eachother. Each cottage had a duke (an in-mate), and that duke was the boss. Heran that area. The politicians didn’t run it,the kids didn’t run it, the ‘duke’ ran it. Ifyou wanted someone choked or killed, orbeat up, tell the duke and he’d see to it. Itwas completely out-of-hand.

Tragedy occurred at the Missouri Train-ing School [For Boys] on Sunday, January18, 1948, when Rolland Barton, a 15-year-old inmate was strangled to death bytwo older inmates. It was an ironic twist offate that the death of a boy named Bartonwould result in the appearance at the fa-cility of a trooper having the same lastname. That murder was the final straw ina long series of crimes and violence at theschool.”

According to the written account byWalter, The troopers arrived at the schoolat 6 p.m.; an hour after the governor’s or-der went into effect. Eight other officers,who did not have to travel great distance,arrived yet that evening. The inmates, al-ready in their quarters for the night wereunaware of the officers’ presence, but thetakeover was well under way.

The 309 inmates of the Missouri Train-ing School for Boys at Boonville were sur-prised to see state troopers on thegrounds in the dining hall the next morn-ing. Originally, 19 patrolmen were as-

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signed to the duty. Later, 10 more wereassigned. The troopers were instructed toremove their sidearm and received theirassignments. Their duties included footpatrols, motor patrols, checking the statusof inmate quarters and their civilian guardcaptains, administrative duties, and secu-rity of incorrigible inmates in the specialdetention area.

“The Patrol fired all the employeesdown to the janitor. My assignment alongwith another trooper was in the dairy. Iwas placed in charge for the time I wasthere. They hired people who took ourplace.

While some were quick to criticize thePatrol for its involvement or its methods atthe Training School, many more were im-pressed with the way the Patrol had con-ducted itself in such a difficult assignment.

My home was in Sedalia, so I made allthe [Missouri] State Fairs for 15 years. Iloved it. It was my hometown, and theygave me permission to stay with mymother. One year, I got to take my brandnew car to the State Fair. Boy, was I a bigshot that year. It was a 1949 Ford. It wasso much different from the previous car. Itdrew a lot of attention.

I worked many football games – 12years. An odd thing happened at onegame. I was working “the Point”, and afterthe game was over, when all the carswere gone, I looked for my ride and therewasn’t any. The car that took me downthere went off without me. I don’t remem-ber how that happened or what the ex-cuse was, but the car that took me wentoff and left me. I sure felt silly. There wasa great big parking lot, and here’s onetrooper standing out there looking forsomebody.

You might say I was fortunate enoughwhen I went on the Patrol in 1942, that alot of the original members where stillthere. I got to work with several of them

and got to attend troop meetings with sev-eral of them.

Captain Pogue, an original man, fol-lowed Captain Duncan [Troop H]. Afterseveral captains—I can’t name them all—Capt. Earl Davis promoted me to lieuten-ant in 1963. I stayed there and retired in1969.

After retirement, I took a job with theMissouri State Parks for two long sum-mers, from April to October each year. Iwas a park ranger—the law enforcementin the park. I had eight state parks innorthwest Missouri to look after. I tried tomake two parks a day. If anything specialwas going on, I made sure to be there. Iused my Patrol learning and tactics in mypark job—worked out very well. I was un-der the headquarters in Brookfield. I had aradio in my car, but I could never get any-one. I wrote reports like I did when I wason the Patrol, but I never got an answer.That part of it was a little discouraging, butI enjoyed being a ranger very much.There were always lots of campers in theparks; they were usually full. I expectWallace Park, south of Cameron is my fa-vorite.

When my wife retired, I retired, and westarted traveling. We bought a fifth-wheeltrailer. Did a lot of traveling with the trailer.We spent seven winters in Texas, one inFlorida, one in Arizona, and one in Califor-nia. Then, we went out of the trailer busi-ness and bought a little camper and usedit locally. Every year, we saved up $150,so that summer we could take the kids onvacation. We traveled to all those states.This was after I retired. After we had thatlittle camper, we spent quite a bit of timewith our grandkids. We have fivegrandkids and seven great-grandkids. Af-ter traveling all of the U.S., we made it toseveral foreign countries. We went to Eu-rope six times, and to the Bahamas,Puerto Rico, Virgin Islands, Mexico, fourof the Hawaiian Islands, the Yukon Terri-

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tory, Canada, and Alaska. We were ableto do all this while my wife was well.

Ten years ago my wife became ill, andwent into a nursing home for 17 months,where she passed away in 1995. Her lastyear, I moved here to Country Squire, be-cause she was ill.

I always took a lot of pride in the Patrol.I loved my work. I hated to retire. Peopleasked me after I retired if I’d go back. Foryears, I said sure, right now. I loved everyaspect. I worked with some awful nice,good men. In my time, if a farmer wasworking in the field, we might stop andvisit with him. We were the ones who soldthe patrol. Of course, they probably don’thave time for that now.

(This interview took place in October2005.)

Retired Lt. Walter E. Wilson, 2005.

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Doc Harris is a name that makes ev-eryone smile. He became a weight in-spector at the Patrol on May 1, 1948. Afterfaithfully serving the organization and thepeople of Missouri for over 34 years, heretired on September 1, 1982.

James D. “Doc” Harris was born onSeptember 29, 1920, in Fulton. His par-ents were Howard and Leah Mae(James). His two brothers, Howard andMax, are now deceased. Doc’s nicknamecame from his family. His father wasknown as “old man Doc”, his older brotherwas called “big Doc” and he became “littleDoc”.

Doc grew up in Fulton, where heplayed football. His dad worked in a coalmine and later in a shoe factory. He joinedthe U.S. Air Force, serving from June1942 to December 1945. Doc was sta-tioned at Selman Field in Monroe, Louisi-ana. He stayed in the U.S. during WorldWar II, working as a mechanic and engi-neer.

Doc and his wife, Helen, met when hewas working at the F-1 scale house andshe was working at Kate’s Café. “The Leebrothers and I would shoot rabbits andtake them to Kate. She’d cook them.”Helen and Doc were married December10, 1949. Their daughter, Lori Jain, andher family live in Jefferson City.

After the service, Doc helped put tar onroofs part time, and also worked withsheet metal and furnaces.

Doc was good friends with Robert E.“Nookie” Lee, who worked out there atweight station in Kingdom City. “I knewhim all my life. He recruited me. I workedout there at the scale house until theybrought me to Jefferson City.” Doc got

JAMES D. “DOC” HARRIS

three days off each month and worked 10-hour shifts. Because the Commercial Ve-hicle Enforcement Division hadn’t beencreated yet, Doc’s supervisor was thearea zone sergeant. He worked for Ser-geant Jim Judkins and later, SergeantRoy “Pappy” Dix. Doc worked alongsideHerb and Nookie Lee, also.

“Working with Nookie Lee is a greatstory. He was left-handed and a good ballplayer. He taught me everything he knewabout being a weight inspector. Of course,I read everything about the job ... aboutwhat to do.

I met many interesting truckers. Wehad truck drivers from all over the country.Some of them were glad we had thescalehouse, but most of them weren’t.Many of them were put out-of-service be-cause they were overweight. Some wereover on size.”

Weight Inspector James D.“Doc” Harris

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Doc said he didn’t think trucks trans-porting illegal drugs were as common asthey are now.

“Me and Herb and Nookie were as-signed to Kingdom City. Poodle Breid wasin the zone. The weigh station was a 24-hour operation. When I went to work outthere, it was very busy clear through thenight. An eight-hour shift was spent sittingat the scale.”

During Doc’s tenure at F-1, recordsshow that it was the busiest scale house inthe state. “It was one truck after another.I’d be saying, ‘Next ... next ... next …’ tell-ing them to move up.”

According to his wife, Doc would say,“Next,” in his sleep sometimes.

Many unusual incidents occurred duringthe time Doc worked at F-1. On at leastfour occasions, trucks crashed into thescalehouse when their air brakes leakeddown while they were parked at a rest stopunattended on a nearby hill. Doc also re-called one truck missed the weigh station,but struck a car owned by Nookie. Anothertruck went headlong into the pit where theplatform scales set. (The scale mechanismhad been removed for repairs.)

Doc said the most unusual truck casewas one that was over length, over width,and overweight, — a tractor and flatbedtrailer hauling two barges from the Mis-souri River in St. Louis, to Kansas City. Ithad no permits of any kind. They weighedabout 112,000 pounds, were wider thanthe entire roadway, and were on U.S.Highway 40, a two-lane road.

Once, when Doc was at the scalehouselooking out the window, he saw a carcome around the corner. A lot of little tagscame out of the car’s window. Doc wentout and picked them up. The tags hepicked up were from George Tutt’s Mens-wear—someone had stolen a lot ofclothes. When he got back to thescalehouse, he heard over the radio aboutthe theft. He called in and told them wherethe car was and what type of car it was.

On January 1, 1963, Doc was as-signed to General Headquarters as aWeight Inspector III.

On November 1, 1973, Doc became achief inspector. He visited the differentscale houses regularly. He was also thefirst senior chief inspector, being pro-moted on August 13, 1976.

Doc retired on September 1, 1982.Since then, he’s been busy gardening

and doing yard work. “I fished a little bit atfirst. We were so busy, we didn’t knowhow we ever had time to work. I put cornout for the deer and sunflower seeds outfor the birds. It’s been so dry, they allcome here to drink water. We have opos-sum, ground hogs, and squirrels. It’s beena relaxing retirement. I didn’t retire, I justchanged jobs.”

(Doc’s story is a compilation of a Sep-tember 2005 interview and stories foundin the Patrol News.)

Weight Inspector Doc Harris stands atthe Kingdom City scale house in 1954.

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Retired Lt. Col. Paul V. Volkmer servedas a member of the Patrol for 38 years.He said being lieutenant colonel and influ-encing the direction of the departmentwas satisfying. But, being a zone sergeantwas one of the best jobs on the Patrol. Hissoft, strong voice gave well thought outreplies to every question. His son, Sgt.Eric K. Volkmer, Troop I, says his dad is avery intelligent man and never forgets afriend. “When I was growing up, he wasgone working a lot, but was always therewhen you needed him. He may no longerbe working for the Patrol, but he stillserves the people of Missouri through hisvolunteer work with Capitol Region [Hos-pital] and Meals-on-Wheels.”

Paul Victor Volkmer is the son of Pauland Victoria Volkmer. He is the oldest offive children, and grew up in JeffersonCity, Missouri. His father was with theRailway Express, and his mother was ahomemaker.

“As a kid, we had coal stoves and hadto build a fire in the morning when it wascold. The windows were open and fansgoing when it was hot. If it got too hot,we’d take a sheet outside and sleepwhere we could find a breeze in the backyard. First cooling we had was a big, cen-tral exhaust fan … that was new backthen.”

P.V. graduated from St. Peters HighSchool in 1946, which is only an elemen-tary school today. He joined the U.S. Ma-rine Corps on June 6, 1946, and wasdischarged at the rank of corporal on June5, 1948.

“After boot camp at Paris Island, SouthCarolina, I was assigned to the Marine AirCorps in Cherry Point, North Carolina andreceived training on an R5C, twin-engine,

PAUL V. VOLKMER

transport aircraft. I was fortunate enoughto be on a flight crew during the latter partof my enlistment. I got to travel quite a bit.I enjoyed my time in the service.

I met Betty Ann (Rapp) when I waskinda hanging around after I got out of theservice. I went to college and hungaround an area in Jefferson City called“Goose Bottom”, a section of McCartyStreet near the drug store. A few of usplayed cork ball and bottle cap ball in thealley. As few as three of us could get to-gether for a game. Betty lived not too farfrom there. I noticed a pretty girl aroundand made it a point to get acquainted. Wegot married November 26, 1949, after re-cruit graduation and before I reported toButler, Missouri.”

After being honorably discharged, heattended Jefferson Junior College inJefferson City, Missouri, for a year. Hethen joined the Patrol on October 14,1949, as a member of the 11th RecruitClass. They trained at the State Fair-grounds in Sedalia.

Trooper Paul V. Volkmer

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“We had a couple of troopers I admiredliving in our neighborhood. The Patrol’sreputation was outstanding at the time, asit still is. It seemed like something thatwould be interesting, and something I’dlike to do. There were five of us in thatclass living in Jefferson City at the time.Four of us were attending Jefferson CityJunior College. Out of the five, four stayedto retire from the Patrol. There were 33recruits in the class.

We trained and lived in the women’sbuilding on the fairgrounds in Sedalia. Weused the facilities there for six weeks oftraining. They told us they only had open-ings for 31, so somebody would go home.We all worked pretty hard for a while. Wedidn’t think they were going to send any-one home until one day they did. We gotback to work then. It was a budgetarything. Ended up they didn’t have enoughpositions to keep everyone. Our instruc-tors included E.V. Nash, Herb Brigham,and Tom Pasley. A couple of attorneyscame in to teach law. John Berglund, K.K.Johnson, and Walt Snyder, taught also.Different ones came in and taught acourse, then were gone. Bill Barton was

zone sergeant at Sedalia at the time. Hebrought some car thieves in, and we ob-served how they [troopers] treated/handled them [criminals].

One day, they took us out to a wreckjust east of Sedalia near Missouri High-way 50. A train struck a panel truck at acrossing. As I recall, eight or nine werekilled. They were workers being trans-ported to a job—sitting on benches in thebed of the truck, which crossed the tracks.It was a gruesome sight. That was quitean experience for a 21-year-old.

It [recruit training] was demanding andinteresting. They treated us like bootseven though many of us had been in themilitary. Several instructors were ex-mili-tary. It was kind of like a semi-boot campall over again. They kept us busy.

I was assigned to Butler, Missouri. Thezone included Bates, Henry, Cass and thesouthern part of Jackson counties. When Igot there, they had only three officers forthat entire area. I became the fourth. Weearned four days a month leave and 10days of vacation per year. George Phippswas my training officer. Working the roadwas so different then than it is now, I’m

This “checkpoint” was set up to weigh commercial vehicles. P.V. Volkmer is on the left.

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sure. Back then, we worked longer hours,and were called out or went to court a loton our own time. If anyone kept track ofhours, I never did hear about it. We notedthem on our daily report and that’s the lastwe heard. In one week, I might work Sun-day afternoon and night, be up Mondayfor court, work Tuesday night, get up andwork Wednesday. Maybe have someother court on Thursday. On weekends, Iworked a shift like 2 p.m. to 2 a.m. When Icame on, that first winter we wore ablouse, boots, breeches, and billed caps.You needed boot hooks to put the bootson, and help or a boot jack getting themoff.

I can remember the first fatal accidentwe were called to. It was south of Butlernear the junction of Missouri Highway 52and U.S. Highway 71. There was a tavernthere. A young man driving along ran offthe road by the tavern and hit a tree. Hewas badly injured. We had a hearse comeout — didn’t have any ambulances in therural areas back then — and take him tothe hospital. We went by the hospital toget information for our investigation re-port. While talking to the doctor, he told us

the man wouldn’t make it. I hadn’t seenanyone die before. It was a sobering ex-perience; the driver was just a youngster.

Back then, we got calls out in the coun-try a lot, for all kinds of things — familyfights, burglaries, or stealing chickens(during the daytime that was a misde-meanor; night time it was a felony). Some-times, we got calls at home. Butler was asmall town, so someone would generallyknow where you were. They didn’t callheadquarters in Lee’s Summit; they cameby the house. It didn’t take long before ev-erybody in town knew who I was andwhere I lived. Fortunately, Sgt. Phipps hadbeen in Butler a long time. Most folkscalled or went by his house. I got my turnbeing the senior man in town and the ser-geant when I was made zone sergeant inMexico, Missouri, years later.

There weren’t a lot of snow plows. Wehad to stop and put on chains and snugthem up. Then we’d go to the wreck.When we got back to the highway, we hadto take off the chains. It’s hard to put on aset of chains and keep your uniform look-ing good. The side roads were gravel andthe shoulders were dirt at that time.

Portable scales are used to check the weight of this tractor-trailer. P.V. Volkmer is onthe right.

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Troop A had weigh stations in northKansas City, and at Noland Road and OldMissouri Highway 40. They built one inHarrisonville on U.S. Highway 71 andtransferred me there with Tpr. E.V. Nash,from Lee’s Summit. The zone receivedone more officer in Tpr. Nash to help withthe added work due to the weight station.

When I transferred to Harrisonville,which had 2,200 residents and was closeto Kansas City.

In December 1950, the Marines notifiedme to report due to the Korean War. Iwent for a physical, and they found a fun-gus infection, so they sent me back homeuntil it was cured. I told Captain OttoViets, Troop A commander, and he appar-ently checked with somebody. I movedBetty home to Jefferson City. I went in tosee Colonel David E. Harrison as in-structed. Colonel Harrison said for me towork at Troop F until I found out what wasgoing to happen. The Marine Corps didn’tend up calling me, because they nolonger needed any more air reservepeople. I was discharged, then assignedto Troop F in 1951.

I worked out of Jefferson City where wehad three troopers per shift to cover theterritory. Our territory included Cole, Os-age, sometimes all of Gasconade, south-ern Boone, and Callaway counties. Ienjoyed Troop F, there was a lot of activ-ity. You were always busy.

One night, I just finished working awreck. I was on Hart Hill [Jefferson City]on Missouri Highway 54. It was a coldwinter night with six or seven inches ofsnow. Traffic was tied up due to accidents.After I got things going, I went to get intomy patrol car. As I was watching trafficmerge, I saw a traffic crash just behindme. Two cars had hit; the driver of one gotthrown out of his car and came slidingdown the highway at me. I jumped out ofthe car quickly to get him off the road be-fore he got run over, and to try to make

the scene safe. Someone called to methat my patrol car was moving. I looked upand I could see the red light going acrossthe highway and over an embankment. Inmy hurry to get out of the car, I’d failed toset my brake. It was in neutral with the en-gine idling. The snow just didn’t hold it onthe hill, and it started rolling on its own. Ijust knew the captain was going to be onme. It didn’t turn out too bad. The wreckerpulled me out while it was there for the ac-cident. Only a parking lens was brokenout where it hit a fence. I went to see thefarmer about fixing the fence. He said notto worry about it, there wasn’t any stock inthere. We visited a little bit and he invitedme to fish his three lakes when springcame. So, some good came from an em-barrassing situation.

During the 1954 prison riot [JeffersonCity] I was home with my family. Thepower was out due to a big storm. But, Ifinally got word. I was told to get to thepenitentiary, get on the tower at the cornerof Cherry and Capitol streets, and in-structed, ‘Don’t let anyone come over thewalls.’ A lot of residents were outside thewall hootin’ and hollerin’. Many had shot-guns and rifles, and some appeared to bedrinking. I thought it would turn into amassacre if any of the inmates succeededin scaling the wall. The residents wouldyell up to me wanting to know what wasgoing on. I never did see any situationwhere the inmates might get out.

The next day, I was assigned to B Hall.It was a mess. Inmates were yelling andthrowing things. We were downstairswhen we heard one shot fired. Immedi-ately after that, all we heard was theclang, clang, clang of the cell doors shut-ting. Everything got quiet. Later, we wentto F and G halls. Inmates had to show ushow to work the cell blocks. I don’t thinkthe guards we had were familiar with thatcell block. They might have been new orfrom a different part of the prison. Some of

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the inmates were glad to see us and co-operated in getting the system to work. Itlooked to me like a lot of the inmates werenot involved in the riot.

In 1959, I was promoted and became azone sergeant. I was sent to Mexico, Mis-souri. That’s one of the best jobs on thePatrol. We were always involved in a cer-tain amount of criminal work, peace distur-bance, traffic, routine stuff someone hadto do. Got called out often. The zone cov-ered Montgomery, Audrain, and Callawaycounties, and once in a while we’d get intoGasconade County. We had six peoplemost of the time, but often there was al-ways one short and breaking in a newtrooper. Sometimes we had some longruns to make in order to answer a call. Itwould take an hour or so to get there. Wegot called on everything. The sheriffneeded help; the city called. Or, we wouldcall them. We got along with the other lawenforcement agencies in the zone most ofthe time.

In October 1966, the colonel called mein. He told me I was going to Troop A as a

lieutenant. First, I was the enforcementlieutenant over the zone sergeants, CVE,and troopers. Later, I was special serviceslieutenant. At that time, we had two lieu-tenants in Troop A. I never had a job Ididn’t like while I was on the Patrol, al-though, some jobs were better than oth-ers. I found it all interesting.

In the late ‘60s, there were riots in Kan-sas City, [Missouri]. They were brought onby racial strife. I went up to Kansas Cityas a lieutenant in 1967. [Vincil] Maxeycame in as captain about six months be-fore. It was in that time frame the riots oc-curred. I hadn’t been there long when thattook place. I was down there for part of it,then Maxey came and I went back to thetroop to coordinate supplies and gettingtroopers in and out. Saw some of the ac-tivity. The citizens treated us like kings —they sure were happy to see us [in Kan-sas City]. Troopers stayed in dorms atAvila College. The Patrol was involved forseveral days.”

In 1969, P.V. was promoted to captain.“I stepped in when Maxey was promoted.I was familiar with the troop and people. Ididn’t have to move. That was nice. Beinga commanding officer is the best, kindalike being top zone sergeant. You can sitdown with people and make plans andsee things come to fruition. It was verysatisfying. For example, the interstateswere under construction and we were pa-trolling all the interstates in Kansas City.We worked together on daily operations toget things done right. If you involved thetroops, it worked well. Most challengingwas the disciplinary problems, figuring outwhat to do, so you didn’t overdo things.We received our share of complaints, sowe had to sort them out and be careful tosee what actually happened before decid-ing what, if anything, to do. Choosing theright discipline for an infraction was notthe easiest decision to make.

Lt. Colonel Paul V. Volkmer

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We had a lot of unusual incidents, too.One day Lt. Tom Poindexter called. Hewas working a wreck involving a patrolcar. This lieutenant’s car was alwaysclean and shiny. There were some goatsthat got out of the pasture when the fencewas knocked down from a previouswreck. One of the goats must have seenits reflection or something in the patrol carand started butting it. It dinged the car upquite a bit.

The Republican National Conventioncame to Kansas City in 1976. We handledtraffic and crowd control. Quite a fewtroopers came in for that. PresidentGerald Ford was there. We had a goodsize detachment from the Patrol to assistKansas City police. At that time, we pa-trolled all the metro areas in Kansas City.Of course, it wasn’t as big of an area as itis now.

In 1977, I was promoted to major andassigned to GHQ. At that time, we hadthree majors—special services, field ser-vices (CommD, DE, MVI, CVE, and ISD),and enforcement. I was first in special ser-vices then I went to field services. While infield services I was deeply involved withinitiation of the MULES system. I enjoyedthat, it was a busy time.

I was promoted to lieutenant colonel in1980. That job seemed a little confining atfirst, but I finally got used to it. When theboss was out, it left me there. There werelots of things going on. I would have likedto have been more involved, hands on. Imissed that. But, there was a lot of satis-faction in the job. You have a little bit ofsay in things that need to be done orchanged, and are able to watch changescome to fruition. I hope it was all for thegood.

The uniforms changed a lot over theyears. The old, winter, Navy, “P” coats wefirst used were so heavy we didn’t usuallywear them. We had several differentstyles. Different superintendents would

have a different idea. Someone wouldpersuade him to use a lightweight coat orchange raincoats. I still have a closet halffull of Patrol jackets and overcoats.

Going to the “Ike” jacket I thought wasa step back. We were used to the blouse,and I just didn’t think the “Ike” jacket mea-sured up to the blouse at all. But, thestraw hat was great, a lot cooler than thefelt on a hot summer day. So, I didn’t mindthat too much. I notice a lot of depart-ments don’t even wear hats in the sum-mer now, except with their dress uniform.The old long sleeved shirts were wool andvery hot in the summer time. So, I didn’tobject to the short sleeve shirt. I thought itwas great. Whatever happens, you even-tually get used to the changes. I still havea blouse or two, and a billed hat. I gavemy pants and boots to the guys on motor-cycles. I kept my riding boots for a while. Ifinally traded my boots with a JeffersonCity officer for pair of shoes. He was amotorcycle officer and really appreciatedgetting the boots.

One of the biggest changes in the waywe worked was MULES and data pro-cessing. It was new and we had to workpretty hard to keep from getting swal-lowed up by it. It has ended up being asophisticated communications andrecords keeping system.

Years ago, our radios would get us intotroop headquarters most of the time. But,there were a lot of locations where you’dhave to point your car toward troop head-quarters or a repeater to get in. Occasion-ally, we would have to try to reach anothertroop and get the information relayed.Looking at my son’s patrol car and thecommunications system and equipment, Ican see how far things have come. Whendriving by a patrol car, if I don’t see thetrooper watching traffic, I know he’s busywith his computer reports, communica-tions, etc. Used to be, you caught hell if a

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member of staff went by and you didn’tsee him.

There have been a lot of changes inthe way things are done compared towhen I came on — better training, bettercommunications, and, the one thing we’dall have given a lot for in the summertime,air conditioned cars.

I remember a long car chase one nighton a weekend. A Fort Leonard Wood sol-dier driving in Versailles was driving fast. Iturned around and caught up with himsouth of Vienna. Chased him throughDixon and radioed Sgt. Dick Knight. I thinkhe got him. I was about out of gas andhad to shut down. Bud Jones was on inJefferson City, and he brought me somegas around Vienna, so I wouldn’t run outof gas. It was a long chase. I was drivinga six cylinder Chevy. There wasn’t anyoneelse to call for help. So, I had to call Budor wake up a farmer and try to buy somegas from him.

I’ve chased cars for 15 miles in one ofthose old Chevy patrol cars. If they gotslowed up by traffic and I caught up withthem and got them stopped, they usuallydidn’t know I was chasing them. Thoseguys with the big V-8s could easily outrunour Chevys, even when they didn’t intendto. Kinda embarrassing. At that time, therewas no speed limit, so you had to make acharge of careless and imprudent driving.

I’ve been asked why I didn’t work afterretirement. I worked 38 years. We’d talkedabout going places and winter was com-ing. I took advantage of retiring in Sep-tember; I could have stayed another fivemonths. I thought it was time to go. I wasantsy, looking for other things to do. Westill take cruises and go to Florida. We gosee the kids ... do what we want to do. Ihave enjoyed retirement too much to goback to a regular job. But, I do enjoy vol-unteering.

We have four children (two boys andtwo girls), eight grandsons, and three

granddaughters. Robert is just back fromIraq after a year. He was part of a helicop-ter unit with the Missouri National Guard.Paula lives in Higginsville, Missouri. Ericis a sergeant on the Patrol in Rolla. Julielives in Sycamore, Illinois.”

(This interview took place in June2005.)

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When talking to Sergeant Ralph M.Rider, retired, one has to pay attention.Ralph knows how to tell a story andshared many, along with a few “Rider-isms”. Throughout his career, retirement,and currently, he has been active in hiscommunity. Ralph feels strongly about atrooper needing to be part of his commu-nity. In 2001, he was named grand mar-shal of the Dogwood Festival, an annualCamdenton, Missouri, festival. “The great-est thing to happen to me locally was be-ing the grand marshal. It really made mefeel good, because this was in 2001. I’dretired from the Patrol in 1979.”

Ralph M. Rider was born in PettisCounty, eight miles west of Sedalia. Hisparents were Henry T. and Clara Char-lotte [Stahlhut] Rider.

“I had two brothers. One older, that’sDonald Verne, and one younger, CecilHoward.

It’s a great thing being a middle child.On the farm, we had chores. It’d be ‘youtwo big boys do this, or you two little boysdo this.’ That is the way chores weredivvied up—perfect.

I went to school in a one-room school.It was on an acre of land that my grandfa-ther dedicated, so the school could bebuilt. There was a shed on the schoolgrounds. That’s where we put our horse.We rode a horse during my first few yearsin grade school. Then, we moved about amile closer to the school. After that, wewalked a mile and a quarter.”

Ralph attended Smith-Cotton HighSchool in Sedalia, Missouri. “A neighbor,who took milk to town every day, was con-tracted to take us in his 1933 Dodge se-dan. He had several children he took to

RALPH M. RIDER

Sacred Heart School. There were three orfour neighborhood children he took to highschool.

I liked high school and made goodgrades. I was not a very great athlete—people didn’t drive very far to watch meplay. My older brother played football onthe varsity team. I played football some,but not on varsity. I liked track. I could runlike a scared rabbit … I ran high hurdles. Iread … I loved to read; I still do. But,probably the best thing that happened tome in high school was when I graduatedin 1940.

After graduating high school, I went toDiesel Power United School in KansasCity, which I enjoyed. They taught dieselmechanics and engineering. Besides be-ing a farm hand, one of my first jobs wasas an ambulance driver and attendant forDaniels Brothers Funeral Home in KansasCity, Kansas. Then, I went to work forWagner Funeral Home in Kansas City,Missouri, and rode a motorcycle and es-corted funerals.

Trooper Ralph M. Rider

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I enlisted in the Army on Friday the13th, in November 1942. (Mother Goose,do you think I’d wait for them to draft me?I was eager.) Because I enlisted [ratherthan being drafted], I didn’t get the sevendays to go home and settle my affairs.Three days later, on my 20th birthday, Iwas peeling potatoes. Welcome to theArmy.

The Army recruiter told me because ofmy diesel mechanic and engineering train-ing and ability I’d go straight to AberdeenProving Grounds in Maryland, where die-sel trucks and tanks were being tested.They put a group of us on a train. A longtime later, some fella on the train said,“There’s Limon, Colorado.” We were go-ing the opposite direction and ended up inCamp Carson, which is now Fort Carson,Colorado, where I served in the field artil-lery as a forward observer for a 155mmhowitzer battery. Our battery fired thedemonstration rounds for PresidentRoosevelt when he celebrated Easter atthe Garden of the Gods that year.

Then, there was a program—ArmySpecialized Training Program, becausethe powers-that-be in Washington, D.C.,figured we have all these people drafted in

the service, what are we going to do forskilled people when the war is over? Theydecided they would need doctors and en-gineers. So, they started the Army Spe-cialized Training Program. I applied for it.Because of my IQ and mechanical apti-tude, I was chosen for engineering train-ing. Of all the colleges and universities inthe United States, they sent me to theUniversity of Missouri-Columbia. After twosemesters, with the upcoming Allied inva-sion in Europe, troops were needed there.The ASTP was scrapped.

I was assigned to Fort Leonard Woodto the infantry. There, I went to the state ofLouisiana on maneuvers. I was there amonth or so—seemed like forever. Wewere never in a building, and it was win-ter. Because of the dampness and cold,several of us suffered from pleurisy. Aftersurviving that, we were sent to CampBreckenridge, Kentucky. It was close toHenderson, Kentucky, across the riverfrom Evansville, Indiana. It’s no longerthere.

From there I went to Fort Meade inNew Jersey, and shipped out to Wales[England]. We really got the bad end ofthe deal on that. They put us in old bar-

Pictured is the 11th Recruit Class.

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racks that the English wouldn’t stay in.They had straw mattresses and the bugsthat went with them. It was terrible. Then,one day, we shipped out of South Hamp-ton, England, and landed in Rouen,France.

When we got to France we were toldwe would be there for about a week, andthen we would be going to Holland for fur-ther training. On the way up, we wentthrough Belgium. That’s where The Battleof The Bulge occurred. We were massa-cred there. The Germans had pushedthrough to north and south highways.Some of them were in our uniforms, anddriving our Jeeps and half-tracks. It was ahorrible mess.

As I remember, we had one clip of am-munition per rifle—eight rounds—no othersupplies, clothes, nothing. We had just theuniforms we were wearing and regular GIshoes, not boots, in the middle of Decem-ber of the coldest winter ever in Belgiumup to that time. We were sadly out of luck.

I believe that before we got out of Bel-gium, I was one of four survivors in an in-fantry company (which originallynumbered 212 men) who was not sentback behind the front lines due to woundsor death. Finally, we got some supplies. Itwas great. All of us had been wading inthe snow in Belgium forever, and had footproblems (trench foot) ... terrible rottingfeet, because we didn’t have proper foot-wear. Then, we got shoe pacs (boots),which were leather tops and rubber bot-toms. Of course, that accelerated the footproblems because our feet got hot andsweaty. They really did rot then.

After we helped solve The Battle of TheBulge campaign, we were sent to Colmar,France. There, we were attached to theFrench 1st Army, and after three weeks offighting, we captured the city of Colmar.The only caveat in it was we couldn’t useany artillery fire, we had to use smallarms only, so as to not destroy the historic

This photo was taken Christmas 1950,and includes badges nine (O.L. Viets)through 266 (Tpr. Ralph Rider). Ralphpointed out several familiar faces in thephoto. About Pete Stohr, the tallestman, he said, “On a manhunt, he’dcarry a shotgun and it looked like therest of us when we carried a pistol.”Troop A, Zone 2, sent this Christmas

greeting one year.

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city. For this campaign, I received theFrench Croix de Guerre with wreath, anda presidential citation.

Then, we went to Dusseldorf, Ger-many, where I saw my first jet plane. Itmade a half circle over the city. It made adifferent sound, not a motor sound. Wepeeked up from under our helmets andsaw it wasn’t ours. It was German. Later,we just kept going; crossed the Rhine atRhineburg. Shortly after that the warended.

Then, we were sent back to France, toMourmelon-le-Grand. We waited. Wewere in occupation then. Several of uswere sent to Chalon-sur-Marne, an oldFrench Army camp now being used as anAmerican nurses’ redeployment camp.We were there to bring in food and sup-plies and drive pass trucks for the nurses.When nurses got three-day passes, I gota three-day pass, because I was one ofthe drivers who drove the truck. If theywanted to go to Paris, I drove them. Then,they sent us to the so-called cigarettecamps, named Camel, Lucky Strike, etc.We stayed at these camps until we weresent home. Once you had accumulatedenough points, based on time served,wounds, etc., you’d be sent home. Finally,they put us on a ship at Le Havre, France.

While I was in Le Havre, France, myolder brother’s ship came in. He was a ra-dio officer with the Merchant Marines. Hewas the radio operator on board. I stayedon his ship one night. That was outstand-ing—food, accommodations, bunks withsheets, and so forth.

From Le Havre, we went to England.We shipped out of England to go home,and we were crowded in there like hogs ina truck. They had four tiers of bunks ontop of each other. Many of us were sea-sick. I was (please choose a top bunk). Itwas stormy. Every now and then the cap-tain would come on the radio and say, “Behome by Christmas.”

Then, we hit a terrible storm and thecaptain said it was the worst he’d seen inthat shipping lane in 30 years, so heheaded north. On Christmas Day, wewere in St. Johns, Newfoundland, and theship waited there until turkeys could bebrought on board for Christmas dinner. I’dhave rather gone home. There is a rightway and the Army way, and they’re verydifferent. Anyway, that’s how we got to theUnited States a few days before NewYear’s Day. I took the train to JeffersonBarracks and was discharged there.

It was a great adventure. It started offso badly, because I didn’t go to AberdeenProving Grounds. I went to the field artil-lery, which was a great outfit. Then, I wentto the training program, which was learn-ing and I liked that. Then I went to the in-fantry. Most people think that’s as low asyou can go. I found out the people you be-lieved in were the ones you trusted yourlife with. Learned more about psychologythere than any place. Learned to trustother people. You had to. The Army expe-rience was high adventure.

For two or three years I worked for achicken hatchery in Sedalia. I’d workedmy way up in the hatchery and was headof the team that tested chickens. Thenthere was an ad in the paper, and I de-cided to apply for the Patrol. I was alreadymaking $50 a week, and the Patrol waspaying $225 a month, nearly the sameamount. I applied for the adventure—notthe pay.”

When asked how he met his wife,Lucia, Ralph replied, “That was such alucky day. We went to the same church,and lived in the same area. We weremarried a year and 14 days after I wenton the Patrol 57 years ago. Lucia hasbeen the church organist at CamdentonUnited Methodist Church for over 40years. She is an accomplished artist, aswell.

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Nancy was born in ’52, and Ralph Jr.was born in ’53. By way of George Wash-ington University in Washington, D.C., ourdaughter, Nancy, became a lawyer. She isa deputy chief of the Asset Forfeiture andMoney Laundering Section of the CriminalDivision of the U.S. Department of Jus-tice, in Washington, D.C.. Ralph Jr. is anATF agent. He’s a group supervisor in theKansas City area. He was in Chicago for17 years. He is now in charge of thenortheast corner of Kansas, includingWyandotte and Johnson County out toRussell, Kansas, about 20-25 counties.His wife, Sheila, was a U.S. CustomsAgent when they met, and she continuesin this work. Ralph has three children:Charlie, 12, Elizabeth 10, and Danny, 8.Nancy adopted a little girl from China. Hername is Joanna, and she is five.”

Ralph was appointed to the Patrol onOctober 14, 1949.

“Recruit training was a walk in the parkafter World War II. It was at the state fair-grounds in Sedalia. We stayed there forfive weeks and didn’t get off at all. We juststayed there, except we could leave thepremises on Sunday morning and thatwas it. It was handy for me, because Ilived there. But, there were people fromas far away as Tarkio and CapeGirardeau. Being off Sunday morningdidn’t help them very much.

One day, a nice looking young ladycame into our classroom. She quietlywhispered to our instructor. Together, theylooked over the class. Accusingly, shesaid, “That’s him! That’s the one!” And,she pointed at me. Then, she left. We hadto describe her and what colors she waswearing, her height, weight, hair color,and eyes. I didn’t top the class in that ex-ercise. But, later we learned that it wasTrooper Wayne Allman’s wife. He was sta-tioned in Sedalia at that time.

I’ll tell you, it was a good school. Imade the Patrol News with my answer to

a test question about where somethinghappened after looking at a drawing. Myanswer was, ‘It happened in a southernstate because the streets were wider.’”

Ralph graduated from training on No-vember 23, 1949, and was first assignedto Troop A.

“Troop A, Clay and Platte counties ...that was fine. Captain Viets was a goodcaptain. Our zone sergeant was Olen B.Curtis. He had been a colonel in the Armyin WWII. That was about even with beinga sergeant on the Patrol back then. Hewas a great sergeant.

Hugh A. Wallace was my FTO. He wasfrom Pleasant Hill. He was a great person.Sometimes on Sunday mornings, we’dwarm up the plane, and we’d go up andlook around. You learn so much with yourFTO. He was a great leader. He finally be-came the troop commander at Troop F.Shortly after that, he died of cancer. HughWallace taught me there was one thingabout the Highway Patrol: You could go inthe front door to any place. You weren’tsecond-class to anyone. I’ve been associ-ated with some really bright people on thePatrol.

In Troop A, one thing I remember asmuch as anything is a lady who was tryingto commit suicide over in Platte County.The county lines were not marked explic-itly on Highway 71 when you came in to-ward Kansas City. I was rushing her to thehospital in the patrol car. Once, shegasped for breath. I said, “Lady, don’t diehere, I don’t know which county I’m in.”She didn’t die.

It was always something. You had toexpect the unexpected. Once there was amotorcycle reported stolen. I checked twomotorcycle rallies that day, but didn’t lo-cate that motorcycle. I remembered thelicense number and found it and the thiefthe next day in Sedalia on my day off.Took him in to Sedalia Police Station. Tpr.Glen Means took charge and wrote thereports, which was a big job.

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In 1952, when Truman was here withhis 35th Division reunion in Springfield, hewould take his morning walk and I’d puttputt alongside on my motorcycle. He’d beon the sidewalk and I’d be on the street.That was a must. If something happenedto him, I could pursue or radio what hap-pened. He was a very gracious person.His plane landed at Springfield Airport. Itwasn’t Air Force One, then. It was the Sa-cred Cow. Anyhow, he stood right at thewalkway before he boarded the SacredCow. He asked every one of us to come

by and shake his hand. He thanked everyone of us. There were a lot of troopers,sheriffs, and Springfield police officers onthis assignment.”

Ralph transferred to Troop F, JeffersonCity in 1956.

“When I arrived in Camden Countythere were five badges in the county—thesheriff, one deputy, Camdenton city mar-shal, state conservation agent, and me. Iworked night and day.

At this time, in communities like this,there were not many opportunities to work

This photo shows the police traffic administration class Ralph attended through Cen-tral Missouri State University, Warrensburg, Missouri, in 1974.

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together. Either you did it or it didn’t getdone. That’s about the size of it. Thesheriff’s office was very sparsely staffedand only during the daytime; city policeofficers were very few, also. So, you justhad to do it. My phone number has al-ways been in the public book. Peoplecalled me at home a lot.

I always have felt strongly about takingpart in the community and making it bet-ter. You could see the integrity of thepopulation was good here [CamdenCounty]. There was a group of very goodresidents here. Since I came here be-cause I wanted to, I wanted to help it be-come an even better community. That wasthe reason for the feeling I always hadhere. If it’s legal we’ll help you. That’s a“Rider-ism”. Another one is: With agecomes wisdom, but not necessarily.(Some of the men, as we got a few morepeople, were always asking me about theRider-isms.)

I stayed involved in the local MethodistChurch. When the Methodist Church Con-ference told us we would build a church inCamdenton, I was chosen to be buildingcommittee chairperson. Later I was bondsales chairman, trying to pay for buildingthe church.

In 1964, the papers said I was kid-napped, but it was only for about 10 min-utes. Some people were shooting in thislittle one horse resort–it had two cabins.The sheriff didn’t have anyone to send, sothey called the Highway Patrol. When Igot there, I found three men. They had astack of jeans about three feet high thatthey’d obviously stolen, and they had lotsof change. While I was digging throughthe stack of jeans, I came upon a .38-cali-ber revolver. I said, “We better go into thesheriff’s office and check on this. We can’tcheck on this on the radio here.” Radioservice has improved a lot since.

I wanted to get them out of there. So,we started. At that time, once we were in

our car, we had to take our revolver out ofour holster and put it under our right leg.That way, it didn’t show, and we werecloser to it than the person we were takingin. The fella right behind me got his armaround my neck and lifted me up. Beingan obedient trooper, I had my lap belt on.He got me stretched as far as he could.He yelled to one of the other guys, “Gethis gun!” The man reached for my holsterand said, “He doesn’t have one!” But, thefirst guy had me stretched and they foundthe gun. The second guy handed the gunto the fella behind. I waited wondering,“What’s going to happen now?!”

Instead of a loud explosion, there wasa hard knock on my forehead, which left agash requiring 22 stitches to close. Beingabout half bright, and the spirit of survivalbeing very strong, I slumped down andplayed ‘possum. We’d just started toleave, and when he lifted me up, my footcame off the gas and the car stopped.They dragged me out and wrapped me ina fishing seine on the ground. Then, theywent back to their cabin and loaded theircar. One of them came back to check onme. One asked, “Is he was still breath-ing?” I was thinking I wanted to livethrough this, too.

They took my car and drove up a sideroad a little ways and parked it. They tookthe ignition wire (from the distributor to thecoil). Key or no key, you couldn’t get itstarted. They left. Since they’d come backand checked on me a time or two, I de-cided I wasn’t going to blow this now. Iwaited until I heard the squirrels. They’dchecked on me enough times I was stillapprehensive. Finally, I heard a squirrelchattering away. I figured that was a goodsign. He wouldn’t be out there if they werestill around. (As an aside, I haven’t shot asquirrel since then.)

I always had a clothes hanger with me.I just stuck it between the coil and the dis-tributor cap and started the car. That die-sel mechanic school paid off.”

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suspect. The only thing we could do, inmy opinion, was to talk about the victims.Go to school and find out everything wecould about the victims. We had to startsome place. That’s where he got the thinggoing. It was real good work on Herb’spart. The case concluded with the arrestof a classmate of one of the victims, a ju-venile, and the arrest of an adult. (He wasold enough to drive the juvenile to thehome where the murders took place.)

Years ago, you just went. There was noone else to call on. If you thought some-one needed help, you went. The Patrolhas changed a lot. It used to be a captain,a lieutenant, a zone sergeant for eachzone—that was all. Then, we got safetysergeants they called them. It changedthen. Sergeants weren’t necessarily lead-ers. It changed the make up of the Patrol.I was always proud to have been a zonesergeant, because you were responsiblefor people and not only for things.”

On May 16, 1974, Ralph was promotedto sergeant.

“I was training a new man down here—James Meissert. I was going over his pa-pers and I noticed he was born on thesame year I came on the Patrol. He’s re-tiring this year [2005]. I trained Meissertand Herb Thomas trained Vince Ellis.

Times have changed. We never lockedour door at home. One time, I got offabout 11 o’clock at night and a car droveup. A man came in and said, “Hey, Ralph,there’s a wreck down here. You need togo.” After that, I locked the door. If theywanted to see me that badly, I figured theycould knock.

If I figured up the overtime, I’d probablyhave about six months or seven months,maybe eight months of overtime. I thinkthey figure eight hours per day now. Itused to be 10 hours. Then, we got fourdays a month off … only one Saturdayand one Sunday. When Lu and I got mar-ried, we used all four days for our honey-moon ... had a long weekend.”

Ralph was promoted to corporal in1968, and designated assistant zone com-mander, Zone 4, Camden and Miller coun-ties.

“We dropped Morgan County from thezone and it went with Moniteau County toform a new zone. We had a few morepeople down here at that time.

Trooper Herb Thomas and I worked areally strange case together, where sev-eral children and an infant were shot.Herb was in on that pretty strongly—theSmith murders. I stayed out at the housewhere the children were murdered, andHerb was in town. It was horrible in thatwe didn’t have anything to go on. Therewas no suspect. He talked to theCamdenton city police officer and weworked out an agreement to contactfriends of the victims in order to develop a

Retired Sergeant Ralph M. Rider holdsthe plaque recognizing his being thegrand marshal for the 2001 DogwoodFestival parade, 2005.

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Looking back on your career, wouldyou do it all over again?

“Yes. In fact, I could probably pass thephysical. Yes, I’d do it again, and I’m 83.The pay didn’t amount to much. But, itwas high adventure.”

Ralph retired from the Patrol on May 1,1979. But, did he really retire?

“No. I guided fishermen for a while.Then, finally, I bought a tackle shop andguide service at Tan-Tar-a Resort. When Ihit age 65 I thought it was time to retire. Ididn’t like that retirement, either. I justdon’t like to retire.”

Ralph served as a Camden Countysheriff and later, chief of police for LakeOzark. While he was sheriff, Ralph initi-ated the first county supported DrugAbuse Resistance Education (D.A.R.E.)program in the school system. Throughoutthe years, he remained active in commu-nity service. He was involved in LittleLeague baseball in Camden County, andhelped reactivate the Boy Scouts organi-zation that had been inactive for sometime. Ralph is an active member of theCamdenton United Methodist Church.Ralph received many accolades over theyears, not the least of which was a resolu-tion from the Missouri House of Repre-sentatives for outstanding work in lawenforcement. In 2001, he was chosengrand marshal of the 51st Annual Dog-wood Festival Parade.

“I’d led that parade for years, and now,I got to ride in a convertible.

About that resolution: Two PulaskiCounty deputies served a search warranton a man in Pulaski County—I believe itwas for burglary. The subject had a gunand got the drop on them. He disarmedthem, and left them handcuffed together.K.K. [Johnson] was in the airplane flyingright alongside the car when I got the carstopped. This subject was in a ’56Chevrolet, which had the glove compart-ment in the middle of the dash, not on the

side. I knew he had a gun, because he’ddisarmed those deputies. He started toreach for that gun and I shot him with myshotgun. His car ran off the road and didminor damage to a small building.

They had a coroner’s jury. It was helddown in Springfield. It was determined theshooting was done legally and properly.

“About a week later, I got a call. I wasto meet his mother and dad at the dealer-ship where the car had been towed.They’d come out to pick up the car. If any-one else had been working, they wouldhave gotten the call. But, here I was. I’djust shot their son, and I had to go meetthem and release his car to them. I wasconcerned about how the contact was go-ing to go. I got there and saw their Illinoislicense at the dealership, and I walked upto them. The woman got out and saidsomething like, “Well, at least we knowwhere he is now.” I was relieved. Sheelaborated a little, and explained theydidn’t know where he was quite often.”

The 74th General Assembly issuedHouse Resolution No. 275, recognizingRalph, “for consistently displaying cour-age and valor in the daily performance ofduty.”

Ralph attended the National TrafficManagement Institute at the MissouriSafety Center, at CMSU, in Warrensburg,MO, from March to May 1974. He at-tended the police traffic administrationclass.

“The CMSU National Traffic Manage-ment Institute was very helpful. They hadgood instructors. Matter of fact, I broughtone back down here, and took him fishing.It just so happened that my son lived in adorm right across the street from our dormgetting his degree in criminal justice whileI was up there. My school lasted threemonths.

I got to spend a week in Canada fishingwith Harold Ensley. He had a TV showthat was called the “Fisherman’s Friend”.

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One time he and Colonel Hockaday werein the same place for a meeting. Theywere trying to figure out how to rewardsome people on the Patrol. They won-dered what to use for criteria. Hockadaysaid community service. Ensley said,“Let’s take them fishing.” (That was theonly Memorial Day weekend I was sta-tioned at the lake that I didn’t work thetourist traffic.)

I’m still a member of the planning andzoning committee for the city ofCamdenton. I was police commissionerfor years. As an old fisherman would say,“I just like to keep my oar in the water.”

The greatest thing to happen to me lo-cally was being the grand marshal of theDogwood Parade. It really made me feelgood, because this was in 2001. I’d retiredfrom the Patrol in 1979. Then, I was sher-iff one short term and chief of police inLake Ozark. Made me feel good. That’sone of the things I wanted when I trans-ferred out of Kansas City. It was a heavilypopulated area. Up there, a person wouldsay, “Some cop told me this,” or “Somecop told me that.” Down here, it was,“Ralph told me.” They never needed touse my last name. It was never Mr. Rider.

Originally on the Patrol, we were called“a group of gentlemen who enforce thelaw.” If I were to talk to a recruit class, I’dtell them, “Every one of you is standingwhere I want to be.” It is really worthwhile.You have the opportunity to do so muchgood. Then, you feel the satisfaction ofdoing something worthwhile. It’s a greatlife.

(This interview took place in November2005.)

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Retired Sergeants Ron and Don Selveywere the first set of twins to join the Pa-trol, and the only set of twins to retire.Both Selveys tell a great story and pos-sess a terrific sense of humor. Don servedthe Patrol for over 35 years, sharing bothhis commission date and his retirementdate with his brother. He caught criminalsand worked fatalities, was threatened andshot at. “Some times, I was glad to gethome,” he said. Today, Don and Thelma’stwo sons, Sgt. Tony D. Selvey, Q/GD, andSgt. Timothy R. Selvey, Troop D, serveand protect the citizens of Missouri.“We’re so proud ... They’ve done reallywell.”

“I was born in Lamar, Missouri. RoySelvey was my dad and Essie Selvey wasour mother. He was a farmer. Childhoodmemories ... playing baseball every timewe ate a meal. We ate real fast so wecould go play baseball. There were four ofus close in age.”

Ron joined in on the conversation,“With our dad, we had enough men in ourfamily to have a baseball team—eightboys and three girls.”

Don, “One of those girls played base-ball as good as anybody. We used to playhorseshoes at the noon hour. Some of ourbest memories were when we went toOzark Grade School a quarter of a milefrom our house. The funnest time wasPTA. As soon as our chores were done,we’d run up to the school and run ... run ...run ... at PTA. Didn’t have televisionsthen. We spent our time riding calves andhorses. Playing ball and enjoying life.”

After graduating from Lamar HighSchool in May 1947, three Selvey broth-ers began farming together.

DONALD E. SELVEY

“Three of us brothers moved to a farmhome 10 miles from our own home. Weengaged in farming together. Bob is ayear older than we are. Bob cooked mostof the time. Ron did some of the time. Inever did. Bob married my wife’s sister, sowe’re brothers-in-law … we used to bebrothers (laughs). They were married aweek before we were.

Bob went to service during the KoreanWar. Ron and I joined the reserves andcontinued farming. We joined the reservesso we could go together. Dad bought acar from a Chrysler dealer from Carthage,Missouri. The man selling the car was acaptain in the reserves. He begged Dad toget us to come talk to him so we could gotogether. That was encouraging, so we didthat.

I was in the infantry. We were on therifle team several years, and have sometrophies.”

Ron, “Remember the first time we shota rifle? You’d turned in your score. Then, I

Trooper Don A. Selvey

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turned in mine. We’d turned in identicalscores. There were differences in theparts of the score, but the same total.”

Don, “One year Ron won the division. Acouple of years later I got it.

A general invited us to ride on his air-plane back to Joplin. That was an honor.He also asked us to join an Army rifleteam for him. We told him at that time wewere going to try to get onto the Patrol(1953). He said, “I respect that, but,should you ever need a job in your lifetimelook me up.”

The captain [Patrol] asked that as soonas we met our obligation we’d get our dis-charge. There were scheduling conflicts. Itwas a long drive from Greenfield to Joplin,and we had to go every Monday night.”

Don joined the Patrol on October 4,1953.

“We were standing in the school yardwhen we were in grade school, which wasby the highway. We might have been 10or 11 years old. Ron and I were standingby the fence. Here comes a patrol car. Wewaved at him. He not only waved, but hehonked at us. From then on, we nevertalked about any other occupation, but tobe on the Highway Patrol some day.

We made application. Ron was marriedthe night before the day we had to go toJefferson City to take the test. After thetesting, I came home in the pickup andthey went on their way. Probably in Sep-tember, I get a telegram having been ac-cepted on the Patrol. Ron didn’t get one. Ithought a long time about accepting. Ididn’t know whether to accept it or not. Ifhe wasn’t going, I wasn’t. I did go aheadand accept. A sergeant came and foundus west of Lamar. He wondered why oneaccepted and another didn’t. The colonelsent him down. Ron said he never got atelegram. The sergeant said, “You weresupposed to.” They read the same. So,Ron went into the telegraph office andsent a message. Something like, “I never

did get a telegram, but if I was supposedto, I accept.”

Found out later the operator thoughtthere was two of the same message.There were only two letters different be-tween them.

So, October 4, 1953, we reported toSedalia fairgrounds and began our train-ing. We went to school for eight weeks.Extensive training on accident investiga-tion, criminal investigation, pursuit driving,firearms training, fingerprinting ...every-thing. We were busy the whole time.Never allowed to leave the grounds ex-cept on Sunday on the fourth week. Theytook us to the barbershop and then backto the fairgrounds. By the time eightweeks was up, we were ready to seesome new scenery.

We were both sent to the Springfieldoffice. As I remember, Ron worked inSpringfield for a week, and then was sentto Neosho. I stayed in Springfield.

One of the most interesting details ... Itwas long. In September 1954, I went toJefferson City to the penitentiary.”

Ron, “Gabriel went to a horse show,and they confused it with me. So, I didn’tget a call. I was the only one who didn’tget a call. I was really upset.”

Don, “The message was a little inter-esting. When I went 10-8, they said, “Usered light and siren. Disregard all stopsigns and yellow lines.” I was clear to Buf-falo, Missouri, before I heard there hadbeen a prison break. Until then, I didn’tknow what had happened. I immediatelywent to a staging area where we were putinto groups. We went to various halls andlocked doors. The next morning, we wentin and started searching cells for weaponsand contraband. It was a hectic day, I re-member. Some officers had to use majorforce before we got there.

We were all armed with shotguns andsidearms. That’s the only time officerswere in the prison with weapons. We were

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lined up shoulder to shoulder and the pris-oners had to walk between our lines to goto the cafeteria.

My wife didn’t have any idea where Iwas until late that next afternoon. Shecalled the troop and asked if there was areason, “why Don hadn’t come home lastnight”. They told her I was in JeffersonCity at a prison riot.

In 1955, I was sent to St. Joseph to anational corn-husking contest. We werethere for crowd control and traffic control.That was another special assignment …probably for a week. I don’t rememberhow many days we were up there.

I had more than one FTO. Sgt. Wallacewas our zone sergeant. Trooper Mumfordwas the main one I rode with; TrooperColvin some—Trooper Kenny Walkersome, and G.B. Tatmeyer. I remember I’dgo a month at a time. They were all extragood people.

Worked the road in Springfield in 1954and 1955. Then transferred to Greenfield,Missouri. I was the first trooper to ever livein Greenfield. The zone was 100 mileslong and 30 miles wide. Many times, I’dbe by myself. Five of us shared that zonefor a long time. One time I rode withDanny Walker. Ted Anderson is another.Some really nice fellas I worked with.

In Greenfield, in 1969, I was promotedto corporal and moved to Nevada, MO, inVernon County. Our zone included BartonCounty. In April 1973, was promoted tosergeant and transferred to Aurora aszone sergeant until 1981.

Our sons went on the Patrol Aug 1,1978. When either of our sons got off,they’d come visit. Invariably, I would beworking a shift. In 1981, Capt. Hoffmanasked me to take MVI at Carthage, Mis-souri. It involved more than motor vehicleinspections. Held that job until June 1,1989.

One time in the ‘60s I’d arrested an in-toxicated driver in the afternoon, and was

in the city hall in Greenfield giving abreath test. The phone rang, and I wasthe only one in there, so I answered thephone. Sheriff’s wife called and said,“Don, that girl got away from him andpulled a gun on him.” I said, “What girl?”The sheriff had left and gone to thesquare and arrested someone. I told her,“I have a prisoner right now.” Sheriff cameto the jail and said he’d take the prisonerto jail for me. “The girl ran west, start look-ing for her if you will.” I got in my patrolcar and went over there.

A person told me that girl was in one ofthese two houses or the Methodistchurch. I went in the church and calledout. I heard footsteps coming. I had mygun in my hand—didn’t know what wehad. This girl came around the corner andpointed the gun right at me. I told her noone was going to hurt her and she said,“You leave me alone. I’m going to kill you.”

I talked fast and she ran again. I caughtup with her, and she repeated, “You leaveme alone. I’m going to kill you.” She ranand I followed. I saw her through a win-dow into a room. She was stepping out awindow and the sheriff was just then walk-ing up. He had her boyfriend with him.She handed the sheriff the gun andstepped out the window.

At the hearing later, I learned she wasjust 16 years old. I told what happened.After the hearing, her mother asked mewhy I didn’t kill her. I told her I didn’t know.Turns out, girl was a mental case—gotwrapped up with these boys drinking beer.

I was just finishing my tour of duty oneday when this man I knew stumbled out ofhis house and could hardly move. He heldonto the house, then the porch. I pulledover, thinking if he drove that car I wasgoing to pull him over. He got into the carand drove to a liquor store. I pulled in be-hind him. A friend of his said, “Hey, Donwants to see you.” The man got in thatcar and ran. He was driving ditch to ditch

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with his arm pointing back at me to shoot.He hit a parked car. When he finallystopped, I rammed right into him.

Three hours later he still tested .36BAC. At .50, you’ll die. You eliminateabout two points per hour. He wascharged with drunk driving, threateningwith a firearm, leaving a scene of an acci-

dent, and resisting arrest. It all happenedin a few minutes.

There was one wreck after another inmy life, until I got on motor vehicle inspec-tion. Then, it was constant phone calls;people coming in with titles. At one time,we had a parking lot full of stolen vehicles.A dealer would test drive a car and get akey made. Then he’d go back at night andsteal it. He’d find a vehicle and switch VINplates.

I got involved in a hot car operation outof Monett, Missouri. Recovered about 50cars. They’d go to Chicago and bring thevehicle to Monett then send to Alabamafor a registration. At that time, it wasn’t atitle state. That man went to the peniten-tiary. He was a reputable car dealer andgot to doing that. (That was when I waszone commander.)

Ron and I enjoyed being on the Patrolpistol team for many years—six or sevenyears. Each troop would have their pistoltraining/qualifications. They’d take theirtop six people and go to Jefferson Cityand have a match. You worked the roadyour regular hours. Once in a while you’dbe told to go to Springfield for training,

Retired Sgt. Don Selvey at hisbrother’s home in 2005.

Retired Sergeant Don and Thelma Selvey (left) stand with Mrs. Donna Selvey andRet. Sergeant Ron Selvey, 2005.

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and there was one day we went to Jeffer-son City. That was in the early ‘60s.

We were sent to the riots in JeffersonCity when they burned down the studentunion at Lincoln University. Went to theriots in Kansas City, when they tore it upwhen they didn’t allow schools out forMartin Luther King’s funeral. One of thoseyears, we were sent to Branson wherethey filmed the Beverly Hillbillies. We en-joyed that. We were there for crowd con-trol. Thelma took a picture, so I couldcarry it.” (Don pulls a faded picture ofRon, Ellie Mae from the Beverly Hillbillies,and Don from his wallet.) “We have pic-tures of Granny ... all of them.”

Looking back on your career, wouldyou do it all over again?

“Yes, in a minute. Never dreaded goingto work. Sometimes, I was sure glad toget home. Some unpleasant duties ...some of the scenes you see make youglad to get home.

We were assigned to a special assign-ment in Carthage one night. We wereriding together. We got a call ... we foundone gentleman had a concealed weapon.We arrested him. Ron went in to testify.He came out and I went in. The judgesaid, “Wait a minute. Have your brothercome in. I want the jury to see you side-by-side.” The jury laughed. Of course, sodid the judge. He said he didn’t want thejury to think we were trying to pull oneover on them—there were two witnesses.

Retirement is the funnest job they’veever invented. We enjoy ever minute of it.I live north of Lamar right in the heart of alarge farming operation my brother has.Carl is the youngest in the family andfarms the biggest. I enjoy golf ... I haven’tgolfed near as long as Ron has. I try tocatch up with him, but I can’t.”

How did you meet Thelma?“I’d heard Thelma existed. Went to

Boots Drive-In Café. We went down to geta cold drink or something and I saw her

there. We visited a lot. It mushroomed af-ter that and she’s kept me all these years.We were married January 10, 1954, after Icame on the Patrol.

We have three children all born in Sep-tember, two years apart. Two of themwere born on the same day in differentyears. Our two sons are sergeants on thePatrol. Tony is in the Gaming Division andTim is in Troop D. Our daughter is a regis-tered nurse. She teaches nursing in a vo-tech school in Harrisonville, MO. Herhusband is a lieutenant on theHarrisonville Police Department. His nameis Jay Boyd. Elaine is taking more trainingto become a nurse practitioner in psychol-ogy. We have seven grandchildren andone great grandchild, just over a year old,a boy.

I think it’s wonderful [that Tony and Timare members of the Patrol]. We’re soproud that they made the grade and gotonto the Patrol. They have really donewell.”

(This interview took place in November2005.)

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Retired Sergeants Ron and Don Selveywere the first set of twins to join the Patrol,and the only set of twins to retire. BothSelveys tell a great story and possess aquick wit. Ron served the Patrol for over 35years, sharing both his commission dateand his retirement date with his brother. “Inever once dreaded coming to work,” saidRon. He had his share of experiences—catching criminals, working horrific fatali-ties, and shortly before retirement, apotentially life-threatening experience dur-ing a traffic stop. Ron relates that andmany other stories in this interview.

“Our parents were Roy and EssieSelvey. We lived on a farm. She was astay-at-home mom—with 11 children, youalmost have to. We had dairy cows andgrew crops. When we first started out it wasall horses. In 1941, Dad got a tractor. Bythe time we got out of high school, we usedjust tractors.

We (Ron and his twin, Don) embar-rassed our sisters when we were real little.We disrobed and went out and sat on thegate. A car went by. They were 10 or 11years older than we were and they thoughtthat was terrible. To my knowledge, my twinbrother and I never did fight. We were al-ways close friends. We used to enjoy grab-bing a cow by the tail and sliding on ourfeet like we were skiing. We wore outshoes pretty fast until our mother caught onand that stopped. There were two youngerthan us, the rest were older. Our parentsand two oldest brothers are deceased.There are still eight of us children living.The rest of them live in the Lamar area.

I met Donna, my wife, at the skating rink.She couldn’t skate and I had to hold her up.I’ve been holding her up ever since. Shewas too young to date then, but I wasn’t.

RONALD A. SELVEY

She was a freshman cheerleader and con-tinued four years in school being a cheer-leader. We’d go to ballgames and thingstogether. We got married August 30, 1953.Two of our children live in Bolivar, one livesin Jefferson City, and one lives in Plano, TX.Roger is the regional vice president forGlaxo Smith Kline Pharmaceutical (Texas),and has two children. Peggy is married withthree children; Cammie is married withthree children. Rhonda is married to DalePenn, a major on the Patrol. They havethree children.

I graduated Lamar High School in 1947.We have a brother a year older than ustwins. We moved to a farm nine miles westof Lamar, rented a house out there, andfarmed after high school. That’s what wewere doing when we went on the Patrol.Fourteen hundred acres doesn’t sound likemuch now, but it was quite a bit then. Bob isjust a year older than us and had to go tothe Army, so the two of us were left alonethere a couple of years.

Trooper Ron A. Selvey

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We chose to join the reserves thinkingthat would allow us to get our crops har-vested. They assured us our unit wouldn’tbe activated until the fall after our cropswere harvested. We heard later there wasa typographical error, and they activatedthe inactive … left the active reserves athome. That’s why we continued to farm.My last assignment was a master ser-geant in the heavy weapons platoon —106 recoilless rifle. It was a jeep with asmall canon on the back ... wasn’t really acanon, but it shot a large shell—lots ofnoise. Don was in a rifle company. Wehad meetings every Monday night andcamp in the summer.

We’d always admired the appearanceof the Patrol officers when we were smallboys. We decided some day that’s whatwe wanted to be. We never got over it.”

They were appointed October 4, 1953.

“Don got his telegram accepting him asa recruit and I didn’t get one. I blamed thaton getting married. But, turned out a west-ern union clerk saw the two messagesand thought they were the same mes-sage. She threw one away.

Sergeant Tom Loy came to the housebecause Don had accepted and I hadn’tanswered. He came to the house andsaid, “Your brother accepted his, whydidn’t you?” I told him I didn’t get a tele-gram. “Oh, you didn’t get one? You weresupposed to.” He sent me to WesternUnion to send a message of my accep-tance provided the offer was still in effect.Western Union didn’t make me pay forthat. Said it was their mistake.

We were the first set of twins on thePatrol and only ones to retire. Another setcame on in 1958. They were Joe andJerry Hart. They stayed several years andthen resigned.

That was probably the first time we’dever been away from home that long. Itwas eight weeks. We didn’t get to come

home at all. Our family got to come see usat the middle of the training. That’s the onlycontact we had except letters. Didn’t haveaccess to a telephone or anything, so wejust wrote letters. There were 30 in ourclass. It was strenuous—mental and physi-cal. But, all you had to do was want to com-plete it. We made up our minds we weregoing to complete it and we did.

We had some awfully good instructors. Iremember Sgt. E.V. Nash and Sgt. Usherwere two of our supervisors. They were aw-fully nice fellas; we really liked them. They’dbring people in from the road and head-quarters to teach certain classes. We hadsome mighty good instructors.

I liked all of our classmates. We had oneclassmate that made us run awful hard.Years later, he resigned. His name wasPaul Moore, and he was from Poplar Bluff.He was tall and lanky and could run a longways pretty fast. Some of us had troublekeeping up with him. He really tired us out.We got along with him all right. They sawquick he was the one to put out there tomake us run faster.

We had some softball games. I used topitch a little softball, and I thought I couldpitch. I pitched one inning then they put BillScearce in there. He could really burn it inthere. I didn’t pitch any more after that.

Right after we graduated, it wasn’t toomany years and the Academy moved toRolla. Ours was in Sedalia, at the state fair-grounds; we lived in the women’s building.We had to heat the building using anti-quated fireplaces. Of course, at night they’dall go out. We went from the fourth of Octo-ber until the last of November—the 25th.

Don was assigned to Springfield and Iwas assigned to Neosho. We worked a fewdays in Springfield. We were awfully naïvewhen we first went on. We’d believe any-thing anyone ever told us. We’d neverhardly heard an off-color joke. Never hadmuch occasion to interact with people. Iwas riding with Kenny Walker, and some-

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body else was going to take me back to themotel that night—stayed there three or fourdays. Kenny goes in and gets on the radioand says tell officer 329 that recruits are re-quired to replace light bulbs when they goout, and the top light in the tower is out.He’ll have to be in here at 5 a.m. in themorning and replace that bulb.

I thought, “I’ll die doing it, but I’ll try it.” Igot busy and found an alarm clock. One ofthe recruits said, “Hey, Ron, you do knowthey’re joking with you.” “I said no, I guessI’ll have to do it.” Sgt. Kenny Walker andGlen Wilson were the ones involved in thatlittle prank. I thought I was going to have toclimb that tower. For the rest of the time weused that headquarters, every time I camein, I’d look up and see how tall that towerwas. Still glad I didn’t have to climb it ... Ijust knew I wouldn’t make it.

I wouldn’t fall for that today. I’d say, “Youshow me that in writing, after the signature’son it!” We thought we had to do everythingwe were told. It’s still with me. I never didget even with them over that. I was greatlyrelieved when I found out they were joking. I

didn’t want to climb that tower at all. Here itwas the first part of December, cold andwindy.

They were just having fun. Kenny wasmy sergeant in Neosho for a long time. Hewas stationed there in Springfield when Ifirst started. I worked there about a weekbefore they transferred me to Neosho. VicMcKee was my field training officer. He be-came captain of Willow Springs before heretired.

There were just the three of us [inNeosho]. Lewis Smith was there, too. Theyhad the old saying, you take your uniformoff, throw it across the bed, and then go putit back on, because you’d have to go backout. I seldom got a full night’s rest. Therewas something happening in McDonaldCounty all the time. Back then, it was part ofthe job, you never complained about it.

We rented a room from a little, old ladynamed Mrs. Rambo when we first wentdown there. She could hardly speak En-glish. That lasted for three or four months,and we decided we needed to get our ownhouse. We rented a place that cost us $40

This truck dumpeda load of appleswhen it crashed.Ron said, “Theycame in handy”when he wasworking long hourslater.

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per month. It wasn’t a real fancy place.There was a floor furnace in the hall we hadto step over. In 1954, our little one got acheckerboard on her bottom when she satdown on that one day. It was awful. Weliked the area. Lived there a little over twoyears. A senator in McDonald County gotthe governor’s and colonel’s ears. Theywanted a man assigned to McDonaldCounty and I was the junior man. The firstday in 1956, I went.

I was in MVI for two years. And in 1982,they asked me to be assistant safety officerfor most of one year. I was never away fromthe road. I was either going somewhere onit, or working it. Frequently stopped some-one on the way when I was going some-where. I pretty much worked the road myentire career.

It was pleasant, but a lot of things youhave to do weren’t pleasant, like the terribleaccidents. I had been on a shift on my owna short time, when I got called to an acci-dent east of Granby. A big truck was just sit-ting there. A car with four people in it raninto the back of that truck. He must havebeen blinded by the sun. It killed all four.One of the back seat people’s arms was inthe front. I soon realized it was an artificiallimb. My first thought had been, “Mercysakes, what an impact.”

I think that was my first time with one ofthose. Back then, you had to work it your-self. I couldn’t call someone to come helpme. You had to get the traffic around it andget all the measurements. I didn’t have ac-cess to someone to come help me like theydo now.

My most complicated accident was on atwo-lane road northeast of Neosho, about1958. The roadway was asphalt, and wasvery damp from sweating. A total of nine ve-hicles were involved, some going west andsome going east. Some of them struck twoor three vehicles. It was necessary to deter-mine which vehicles collided and the loca-tion of the impacts. Then, everyone neededto fill out all the pages of a safety respon-

sible report to the director of revenue. Allthe damages were settled out of court.

Here’s a story. Don was in Springfield atthe time. I had pulled into a truck stop toeat supper. It was near the state line ofOklahoma. I had just finished eating. Thisman walked up and had the most confusedlook on his face. I looked up and spoke tohim. He said, “I’d like to know something.How’d you get here so fast?” I said, “I don’tknow what you mean.” He said, “Youstopped me in Springfield and I’ve beendriving as fast as I dared. Here you are, fin-ished eating.” I forget what I said. Probablysomething like, “I guess I took a short cut.”

We stopped a drunk one night. He wascausing trouble, got a loaded weapon outfrom under the seat of his car and chargedhim with a felony. We were at a roadblocksouth of Carthage after an armed robbery.We got a report this guy was relieving him-self and cussing. Here he came. He hadfour people in the car with him. We stoppedhim and in the process of talking to him, weasked him if he was drunk. He said no hewasn’t. So, I asked him if we looked alike.He said yes, and I replied, “See there, youthink everybody looks alike.” Then he saidno, you don’t look alike.

Later on, we had to go to court to testify;we were subpoenaed. I went in and testi-fied and as I walked out the door, Donwalked into the courtroom. You could hearthe laughter. The judge had me come backin.

Lot of little things like that. My twinbrother was eating his meal in Lamar (sta-tioned in Nevada) when some friends ofmine from Anderson (owned the telephonecompany) spotted him. She came over andsaid, “Hey, Ron, Vic’s sitting back there,he’ll probably come over and talk to you.Act like you’re Don.” He told her, “I amDon.” She said, “No, not to me, to him.” Hesaid, “I’m telling you the truth, I am Don.”She looked at him and said, “If you’re Don,you don’t know me and I’m not telling.” Af-

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ter he described her to me, I knew exactlywho it was.

I worked an incident with a load of pro-cessed chickens. Truck driver went off theroad and spilled them everywhere. Hewasn’t hurt. I worked the accident and Iwrote him a ticket for careless driving. Itold him he’d better get somebody outhere to clean this up. He said he wasn’tworried about it. His company said theybelonged to the processing plant. I gothold of the chicken plant, and they said itbelonged to the insurance company. Fi-nally got hold of the insurance companyand the guy was in Neosho and had goneout to supper. While I was looking for him,people were helping themselves to thechickens. It turned out to be an interstateshipment, and the FBI got involved. It waskind of a stressful situation. The sheriff’swife brought some to my wife. When Ifound out about it, I called her and told her

to come back and get them. Ididn’t want to be in on that. Ev-erything turned out OK for me.

There were lots of incidentslike that. Beer trucks and whis-key trucks — the proceeds ofthose could be cleaned up in ahurry. Had an apple truck turnover one time. Put a couple ofgood ones in my car. A coupleof days later, I got called to abank robbery and couldn’t getaway to eat. I never will for-get—I was thankful I had thosetwo apples. They came inhandy.

I never once remember everdreading going to work. I thinkthat sums it up pretty good. Ifyou don’t like your work, you’lldread going to work.

Back when we had to signwarnings for people for head-lights, taillights, and mufflersand different things, they had

to take the warning to an officer to inspectit once it was fixed. For that period oftime, I didn’t get any free time at all.They’d come to my house in convoys.Didn’t matter what day it was or what timeof day it was. Never got to eat a meal inpeace. If I was on duty, it was a breeze.But, Bob Harper would write a warning tosomebody and they wouldn’t want to driveclear out to his house. I lived closer totown. With this program, they either fixedthe car or they were summoned into court.I was glad the program ended.

One Fourth of July, there were fouryoung fellows got themselves some falseidentification and came to Noel. It showedthem old enough to purchase liquor andthey had too much. That night, they gotabout five miles west of Noel, and hit anapproach to a bridge. It threw them out ofthe car and of course, they all died. Themotor was in the back seat. It was one of

Ron Selvey: Tpr. Ron Selvey works a fatality motor-cycle crash.

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the worst accidents I’d seen in a longtime. I can’t tell you what year that hap-pened, but it’s sure fresh in my memory.Then along comes another bunch ofpeople who’d had too much. They causeda bit of confusion out there ya-yaingaround.

In Noel, a train blew up and destroyedthe whole town. The huck box caught fireon one of the wheels and ignited somefeed. I’d heard it was a bomb, but nevergot any proof. The railroad rebuilt thewhole town. There were two explosions.The first one woke me up out of bed. Ilived in Anderson then. I thought some-thing fell off a shelf. I laid back down;heard a siren go by. Then there was an-other siren ... then another. Then thephone rang and I was told, “Need youdown in Noel.”

I think the worst wreck I’d investigatedwas about six or seven miles south ofNeosho. A lady who was a friend of oursveered to the wrong side of the road andhit a small car with eight people in it. Allbut two were killed. One fellow said he’dcarry a baby if I wanted to take it in. So Isaid, “OK, let’s go.” I was so shook up, Iforgot to take him back with me after wegot the baby to the hospital. It died later.There were three mothers and three ba-bies. The car was up on its side when Ifirst drove up. Somebody told me to givethem the word, and they’d help turn thecar up. When we righted the car, youcould hear muffled cries. Lucille (ourfriend) was on the wrong side of the road.

I moved to Anderson the first day of1956, so I’d worked there a few years.Then, Bob Harper came. I was happy tohave another trooper. He turned out to bea really good friend. Bob was an excellenttrooper after his break-in period. He was abig help to me. I was glad to have him.That was 1963.

One of the funniest things we did wasJoe Cook wrote a little book called,

“Trooper Ticklers”. He was a trooper. Itwas a funny book. He related an incidenton April 1, 1973. The city police inNeosho, where we had our zone officekept playing tricks on the troopers. They’dtell us someone sideswiped our car andwe’d go out there to check. That eveningJay Hall and I went to supper, and I saidlet’s get even with these guys. He said, “Iam for that.” John Prine was working hisfirst shift on his own. I said, “Let’s go toHawthorne Park.” It was southwest oftown.

We radioed each other talking about atrucker reporting a naked woman runningacross the road and into the brush. Wesat there side-by-side talking about this. Itold him if I guessed right, it wouldn’t takelong for a Neosho officer to want to help.It wasn’t a couple of minutes and Neoshovolunteered to help. I said it was just out-side the city, but come ahead. He cameout there. I told him it’s a delicate situa-tion, don’t take your flashlight, just walkaround this particular area. Pretty soon,he was coming around into where ourheadlights shone. I thought we’d betterend this. I called to him said we had her inthe car and we were going to take her in.

The guys at the station said they’dhave the back door open, so we coulddrive right in. Then, I called John and Jay

Retired Sgt. Ron Selveyat his home in 2005.

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to say I needed their help, she was tryingto climb out the window. I told them if wedrove inside the building, they’d shut thedoors and we wouldn’t be able to get out.They thought I was right. So, we parked inthe dark. We got John Prine up there; hewas innocent of the whole thing. So, thethree of us parked in the dark and camewalking around. There was a window thathad about five heads sticking out of it. Wecame walking around there and said,“April fools!” Unbeknownst to us, Joplinand Carthage heard the radio and told ev-eryone to stop traffic, there is a search go-ing on near Neosho. They wouldn’t talk totheir cars. Of course, they told them not tosay anything until the search was over.

Sgt. Walker had a scanner and was lis-tening to it. He called on the phone andsaid, “Ron, my wife has some clothes andI’m going to bring them.” I told him wait aminute. It was a joke. He’d had somejokes played on him. Tpr. Joe Cook hadsome friends over playing cards, andthey’d quit playing and listened to it. Thecity officers told me, “Selvey, next year,somehow we’re going to get even on this.”Lo and behold, a month later I was pro-moted to sergeant and moved to Bolivar.

Don had been promoted to sergeant inAurora just a few weeks before that. Firstthing I asked was if there was a Lutheranchurch. We moved here first of June andfound there wasn’t one close. We gotbusy and got one started. We had it in ourhome the first year. It’s the Zion LutheranChurch. We went to Springfield for awhile, but it was just too far. Got this onestarted here with two or three other fami-lies. Preacher came up from Springfieldevery Sunday evening.

We got involved in lots of manhunts.Lots of people do that. The biggest wasone in McDonald County in 1984 or 1985,and I was asked to help. We finally caughtone that night. I came home the next dayafter being up all night. Don was there

when they got the second. They’d been ter-rorizing people around the county for awhile. It was a big manhunt. Seems likemost of the manhunts get awfully long.

A year before I retired in 1989, a care-less driver was coming down Highway 13.Tpr. J.L. Walker got a call on it, but missedhim. I caught him, so I stopped him. He hada warrant in Henry County. I searched hiscar and decided I was going to have to takehim in to post bond. I put my nightstick inmy holder and came up to him, told him toremain seated and put his hands behindhim. He slowly started to rise up. I didn’tthink much of it, thought he didn’t hear me.He hit me in the neck and grabbed me in abear hug and shoved me off to the side ofthe road. I hit my head on a rock and wasalmost unconscious before three peoplepulled him off me. He turned out to be anescapee from a halfway house in KansasCity. It wasn’t in the computer yet.”

Would you do it all again?

“Yes, in a heart beat. I never regretted it.

We’ve enjoyed our retirement. We neverworked anywhere else, just got along onour retirement. Then, Social Security camealong and made it easier. She works a halfday two or three days a week.

I have a tractor. I’ll mow yards and dosome tilling. It keeps me busy and I don’tcharge people much. My tractor has aloader, scoop, and tiller. There’s alwayssomething that needs to be done. I play golfabout every day. I do these gardens beforeI start playing golf and after I play in theearly spring and summer—not a lot goingon in the winter. I clean a lot of myneighbor’s driveways. They appreciatethat.”

(This interview took place in November2005.)

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Captain Bob Hagan began his careerwith the Patrol in 1956, as a driver exam-iner. He had some interesting experienceswith applicants. In 1958, Bob became atrooper. He excelled as a member of thepistol team, and had numerous trophies inhis basement, including the target he shotwhen tying a national record. Bob enjoyedthe varied experiences of his career,which came through in this interview.

Robert J. “Bob” Hagan was born inPerryville, Missouri, the son of Floyd andPauline Hagan.

“I was born on a farm just outside ofMcBride, Missouri. We lived there until Iwas about seven years old. My dad washaving a lot of medical problems with hiskidneys, and he couldn’t handle the farmwork as well. So, we moved to St. Louis,and he began working in the arms plantduring WWII. I grew up there, and went toBeaumont High School. I had three oldersisters and one younger sister.

Marcia was raised just a block up thestreet from me and a street over. Weknew each other growing up and into ourteens.

We have three children, two girls and aboy, five grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. They all live in the area.

I graduated from high school in 1953.About a month before I graduated fromhigh school, I got a night job in a dinettefactory as an upholsterer. We got marriedin January 1956.”

Bob served in the U.S. Naval Reservesfrom 1951 to 1959.

“Two weeks each year, we left to go toschool or aboard a ship. Most of my tripsafter basic training were aboard ship. I gotseasick every time.

ROBERT J. “BOB” HAGAN

I’ve known several troopers in PerryCounty and always thought a lot of themand the organization. Ray Hollman wasone of them. He was one big man, hewould stand at the intersection and leanon his arms on the roof of his ‘48 Ford pa-trol car. I spent all my summers in PerryCounty when I was out of school. Mygrandparents and several aunts anduncles lived there. I’d spend time withthem in the summertime.

In August 1956, I applied for the Patrol.They asked me if I’d like to start out as adriver examiner because they had open-ings at the time, so I did that.

I enjoyed being a driver examiner. Ispent my time in the St. Louis area. I wasthe first driver examiner in the state ofMissouri to have an applicant die whiletaking the driving test. We were inFerguson, Missouri, and we were justabout halfway through the driver’s test.She’d just gotten to the corner making aturn and she said, “I don’t feel well.” In themiddle of the turn, she leaned back in theseat, so I had to grab the wheel and getthe car stopped. I called the fire depart-

Tpr. Bob Hagan, 1962.

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ment and local police. She was dead. Herhusband said later that her doctor didn’twant her to drive.

I was involved in several accidentswhile giving the driver’s test. We hadmoved the examination office from GrandAvenue to 10th and Washington in down-town St. Louis, and the road test wasgiven in the downtown area, which wasalways congested. While giving the driv-ing test to a gentleman, I instructed him tomake a right turn at the next corner. Aftermaking the turn, he held onto the steeringwheel. We jumped the curb and drove intothe side of a restaurant, knocking a largehole into the side of the brick building.

One other accident stands out in mymind. There was a high curb in front of theexamination office on Grand Avenuewhere applicants would park to begin thedriving test. We would have the applicantstart the motor, and we would check thevehicle’s signal lights and brake lights.Having done that, I got in the car with alady and directed her to pull out when itwas safe, and to drive down Grand Av-enue. She put the car in reverse andturned the steering wheel hard to the left.She had her left foot on the brake and herright foot on the gas pedal.She was pushing down hardwith both feet when her leftfoot slipped off the brakepedal. The car shot back-ward, the right front wheeljumped the curb, and wetraveled backward across sixlanes of Grand Avenue, and

Governor Christopher “Kit”Bond congratulates Sgt.Roy Bergman and Lt. BobHagan. Sgt. Bergman andLt. Hagan were membersof the Patrol golf team thatwon the state employees’golf league championship.

hit a car driving down the street. I wasstepping all over her feet trying to get thecar stopped. Surprisingly, no one washurt. But, the lady didn’t get her driver’slicense that day.

We always asked applicants for identifi-cation. For a young man, we would accepta draft card as ID. Some people who feltthey couldn’t pass the test would havesomeone else come in and try to take thetest for them. A lot of the people in thearea didn’t have middle names, so theirdraft card would have “NMN” in that blank,which stood for “no middle name”. Oneday a man came in and handed me a draftcard. I asked him for his date of birth andthen asked him what his middle namewas. He made the sound for the letters“NMN”. He had read the card and didn’trealize what “NMN” stood for.” He thoughtit was the person’s middle name.”

Bob began recruit training on October12, 1958 at Rolla.

“We had to go to Rolla to take the ex-aminations for trooper. I was notified bytelegram that I was accepted for a class. Itgave me the time and date to be thereand what I needed to bring with me.

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My wife drove me to Rolla. We saidgoodbye there and then we had 10 weeksof school. During the 10 weeks, trainingwent from 6 a.m. when you get up for PTuntil our last class, which was over at 9o’clock at night. We had one day we couldhave visitors. That was a Sunday after we’dbeen there about three weeks. My wife, herparents, and my two children came down. Igot to see them for the day. Then, after sixweeks, we got three days off and got to gohome. Those were the only times I got tosee my family. Ten weeks doesn’t seemlike a long time, but it is under those condi-tions.

We graduated from the Academy on De-cember 20, and I was assigned to Troop C,which was comprised of 10 counties thatsurrounded the St. Louis area. We hadabout 10 days to find a place to live and tomove. I was scheduled to start work onNew Year’s Day.

I was assigned to work the southern partof St. Louis County and the northern part ofJefferson County, where I worked until Oc-tober 1961, when I was assigned to a radarcar. We had two radar cars in the Zone 1area, one on the day shift and one on thenight shift. We had the only radar units inour zone and would work four weeks ofdays and four weeks of nights in all of St.Louis County, and parts of Jefferson and St.Charles counties.

By having the only unmarked car on ourshift in the area, and not being assigned toa specific zone, I got to assist in quite anumber of manhunts, both in Troop C aswell as other troops. I also had to drivemany dignitaries when they visited our area.One year, in the ‘60s, the Boston Red Soxplayed the St. Louis Cardinals in the WorldSeries. I was assigned to drive GovernorVolpe of Massachusetts and his group, whowere in St. Louis for three games of the se-ries. I had real good seats for all threegames, directly behind the Boston dugout.But, the days were extremely long. Thegovernor went to church every morning at

eight o’clock, and each night he was invitedto dinner and to parties, so my workdaystarted around 7 a.m. and ended aroundmidnight. The worst part about that assign-ment was that my wife, Marcia, was a bigCardinals fan. A friend got us tickets for thefirst of the three games, but, I got the as-signment on the morning of that game andI couldn’t take her.

In the early-’60s the Patrol formed theUnderwater Recovery Team. This was be-fore the Water Patrol was formed, and atthat particular time, there were no local div-ing clubs. We had two officers from eachtroop on the team. Al Lubker and I were theTroop C team. We had to pass a RedCross lifesaving course in order to dive forthe Patrol. Training was held at Camp RedBud, at the Lake of the Ozarks. Any timeevidence was thrown into water--a lake orstream--we made dives for that. We werevery lucky in Troop C, we didn’t ever haveto dive for a body. I was part of the team forabout three years. I had to leave becauseof a severe ear infection from diving. It wasdifferent and kind of exciting to be involvedin something like that.

In the spring of 1968, I was assigned asassistant safety officer for Troop C. I reallyenjoyed that assignment, but it involvedsome extremely long hours. We gavesafety programs for school classes of allages in addition to almost every driver edu-cation class in the troop area. We also heldsafety meetings for a lot of large compa-nies, such as, Union Electric and Bell Tele-phone. We had several weekly radioprograms that we were on.

We were also weekly guests on a dailyTV show called, “Mr. Patches”. It was achildren’s show and Mr. Patches was apopular clown in St. Louis. Every Friday, hewould have us on his show to talk to thekids about things such as, seat belts,school safety, and bicycle safety. I took myson and daughter to the show one day, andthey got to be on TV. They really thoughtthat was great.

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On October 1, 1968, I was assigned toattend the Southern Police Institute at theUniversity of Louisville in Kentucky. It wasa three-month school, and the classes wetook were police administration and sev-eral criminal and constitutional lawclasses. I was elected class orator andgave the graduation address for our class.

After finishing at SPI, I returned to myjob as assistant safety officer in Troop C.In addition, I was assigned to teach thelaw classes at the Patrol Academy inRolla, for recruit classes and basic policeclasses. I would generally go to Rolla fortwo or three days at a time to teachclasses on criminal law, rules of evidence,and arrest, search, and seizure. On one ofmy trips to the Academy, Roy Bergmanand I were in the Academy kitchen havingcoffee before classes started, when Lt.Scearce, who was director of the Acad-emy, came in. It was very evident that hewas upset, to say the least. Sometimeduring the night, the basic police class de-

cided to have some fun. They all signed apillowcase and in large letters printed,“HAGAN’S HEROES” on it, after the TVshow “Hogan’s Heroes”. They ran the pil-lowcase up the flagpole in front of theAcademy, and it was still there when Lt.Scearce came to work. We didn’t knowanything about it; no one did but membersof the class. I still have the pillowcase.

In August 1970, I was transferred toGHQ in Jefferson City, and assigned tothe Personnel and Training Division. Laterthat year, I was promoted to sergeant. Iworked in the personnel and training officeand continued to drive to Rolla to teachuntil Spring 1971, when we moved theAcademy to Jefferson City, and I was as-signed to the Academy full time. I re-mained at the Academy until July 1972,when I was transferred to the Traffic Divi-sion.

At that time, the traffic division had ac-cident records for the Patrol. They were incharge of the safety officers’ activities forthe state, and we had the driver examina-tion program in Traffic. That is about thetime we started implementing the STARSprogram (Statewide Traffic AccidentRecords System). I think we finally got

A National Rifle Association officialpresents Lt. Bob Hagan (right) with thetarget he shot. At this match, Lt. Haganshot a perfect score, thus tying the na-tional record.

In 1981, Lt. Bob Hagan won first placein the inter-troop pistol match. Here, Lt.Colonel Paul Volkmer (right) presentsthe first place trophy Lt. Hagan.

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that going in 1973. That was a monumen-tal task.

I was working with Lt. Endicott andCapt. Shadwell, who retired in early 1973.Lt. Endicott was promoted to captain. Iwas designated assistant director in theTraffic Division and was promoted to lieu-tenant in 1975. After moving to JeffersonCity, I continued going to school at night,which I started while in Troop C. I earnedmy bachelor’s of science degree in crimi-nal justice administration from LincolnUniversity in 1980.

In 1983, Driver Examination was takenout of the Traffic Division and became aseparate division. I was assigned there asdirector. I remained in DE until August1988 when I was promoted to captain andplaced back in charge of the Traffic Divi-sion. I remained in Traffic until October1991, when I was transferred to thesuperintendent’s office as staff assistant.

As staff assistant, I was given the job ofsetting up the troop inspection program. Itwas an enjoyable assignment, because itwas just before I was going to retire, and Igot to visit all of the troop headquarters’and satellite offices in the last nine monthsof my career. I retired on April 1, 1992.

One of my fondest memories on thePatrol was being able to shoot on the pis-tol teams. From the early ‘60s, I shot onthe Troop C pistol team, and then on thestate combat team when I moved to Jef-ferson City. We competed in the PoliceOlympics each year, as well as manyother matches. Generally, we did verywell. I don’t remember exactly when thePatrol stopped sponsoring the pistol team,but when that happened, the team mem-bers continued participating on their own.

We had to work the pistol team into ourschedules. Knowing the match was com-ing up, we had to schedule for it. It didn’tget us out of anything. I enjoyed it. Backin the ‘80s I tied a national record on oneof the firearm courses. I have the targetdownstairs. We used .38-caliber revolvers

much like our service weapon, but with alonger, heavier barrel and they had amuch smoother action.

One year, the team members were RoyBergman, Bob McDaniel, Rich Rehmeier,and myself. We shot in the Police Olym-pics in Raytown, in the Kansas City area.We all shot a perfect 100 percent score. Idon’t think I have ever seen all four mem-bers of a team shoot four possibles in thesame match.

My wife, Marcia, retired the same year Idid, and we traveled a lot the first severalyears. But, we have been about everyplace that we wanted to visit. Now, most ofour time is spent here in Jefferson Citywith our friends and family, and on the golfcourse.”

Bob, looking back over your career,would you do it all over again?

“Oh, yes.”

(This interview took place in August2005.)

Ret. Capt. BobHagan at hishome inJefferson City,2005.

This patch wasused by thePatrol’s Under-water RecoveryTeam.

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Rip Russell served the Patrol for al-most 30 years. He was injured more thanonce while on duty. He worked the road10 years, before serving as the MVI ser-geant and then the CVE sergeant at TroopF. Rip said his experiences were “like thatof every other trooper”. But, there’s some-thing in the way he tells a story. His humorand his compassion came through in thisinterview.

Maurice B. “Rip” Russell was born athome, the son of Willard and GladysRussell. His nickname of “Rip” comesfrom childhood. His father moved fromRipley County to Fulton, Missouri. His fa-ther was known as “Rip” because of this.When Maurice was growing up, he be-came “Little Rip” and his father, “Big Rip”.As years passed, the “little” was dropped.

At the time Rip was born, his familylived in Fulton, seven miles from where henow resides.

“We were just country people living outhere in the country. We didn’t have elec-tricity, no modern conveniences, no indoorplumbing. I had two brothers and a sister.My two brothers are deceased. I was thebaby. If my mother had lived to be 110, I’dhave still been the baby.

I went to Sunrise School, a one-roomschoolhouse, for the first through eighthgrade. In 1945, my parents sold the farmand we moved to town. So, I started goingto (Fulton) high school as a freshman. Ididn’t get acquainted with June (his wife)until I was a junior.”

Rip’s wife, June, took up the story. “Heused to come to my house and borrowsomething from my brother, Bob … hisroller skates. He was on the football team,so I knew who he was. He dated a mutual

MAURICE B. “RIP” RUSSELL

friend for awhile and then they stoppedseeing each other. Later, he asked me fora date. Our first date was to go with an-other couple to the movies in JeffersonCity.”

“I graduated from Fulton High School in1950,” said Rip. “I liked the school and theathletics. I lettered four years in football,ran high hurdles in track—always hadskinned knees. But, I wasn’t crazy aboutbasketball.

After graduating I worked for Interna-tional Shoe Company as a troubleshooteron their equipment. They sent me to Jef-ferson City, Poplar Bluff, etc. I worked forAP Green in Mexico, Missouri, after that.Then, in 1957, I went back to work for In-ternational Shoe Company. I think theyfolded up, because I went to Cabool andwas working for a shoe company downthere when I applied for the Patrol. I wasaccepted to go to the training school inRolla beginning October 12, 1958.

It [joining the Patrol] was just some-thing I thought I’d always like to do.

Tpr. Maurice B. “Rip” Russell, 1962.

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Poodle—Russell Breid—was a Fulton boyand was very sharp. His uniforms weretailor made, and when he brought themhome, his wife re-did them. His equipmentwas immaculate. Every morning hewashed his patrol car at the scale house,and when he went home in the evening,he’d wash it off again. When I came on,he was delivering cars around the state.He had a bad back and could no longerwork the road. Russell was the one whoreally inspired me; the reason I joined thePatrol.

I managed to get through 10 weeks oftraining. Most of the men in trainingschool when I was there had been in theservice. Poor me, I was too young forWWII, and married and had too many de-pendents for the Korean War. Therefore, Ididn’t know my left foot from my right footwhen I was marching. [Sergeant Ernest]VanWinkle was one of the instructors, andhe threatened to get paint and mark themleft and right.

Right off the bat in training they wereworking us pretty hard. This one Sunday,Sgt. VanWinkle decided to take it easy onus. We were just going to have light calis-thenics … He got the “medicine” ball,which was pretty heavy. We’d throw thataround and catch it against our stomachs.The guy next to me threw it low, and Ithought it was going to hit me where itshouldn’t, so I put my hands down for pro-tection. When I caught it, the ball bent my[little] finger back. VanWinkle asked mewhat happened and I told him I thought itwas broken. He thought it was just out ofjoint. But, they sent me to the hospital andit was broken. They put a cast on it. It be-ing my right hand, I couldn’t fire myweapon … they gave some of the testsorally. Some way we were able to strugglethrough and graduate 10 weeks after that.I was the first casualty in the class. Had acast for a month to six weeks.

Tony Viessman was in my recruit class,and he was an expert shot. But, he didn’t

tell anyone when he got there. Tom West[Pasley] was the firearms instructor. Whenwe were in class, Tom would have to tellTony to pay attention. But, he’d fall asleepagain. Tom told us when we got ourweapon we were not to do anything to it. Ifwe thought the sight wasn’t right, we wereto tell Tom. He’d decide if anythingneeded to be done.

At the range, five recruits would shootfive rounds at the target, then move, sothe next five could shoot. Some of us gotup to shoot and our hands weren’t steady.But, Tony, he held up his weapon and shotfive times in a row. You could hardly seethe barrel move when he cocked his gun.Tom had binoculars and was watching us.We saw him lean forward and could tell hewas surprised. Tony had shot all five ofthose rounds in an area about the size ofa half dollar.

Well, Tom came down and said,“Viessman! You’re either the luckiest #$@or you know how to shoot!” Tony told himhe was just lucky. After that, once ourrange time was over, there they’d be, Tomand Tony ... shooting. Some days, Tomwould win and others, it’d be Tony. Theclass started to make bets on who wouldwin on a particular day.

One day, they flipped a coin and Tonywas to be first. He aimed his gun, andshot once. The bullet hit the side of thetarget. He didn’t say a word, he just putthe gun in his holster and walked off ... Heknew Tom had gotten into his locker andadjusted the sight.

Tony tried to get Tom back. Tony took agreat deal of time cutting up little rubberbands and when Tom went back into thekitchen to talk to the cooks, he mixedthose little pieces in with Tom’s pipe to-bacco and then zipped the pouch shut.Tom came back to the table. In time, hepulled out his pipe, filled it from the pouch,and lit it. He took one inhale, stood up,and left the room. You could tell by hisface he was feeling the effects of the rub-

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ber bands, but he wasn’t going to giveTony anything.

Fulton being my hometown, I just knewI wouldn’t be put in Troop F. We were al-lowed to list three places. I believe I putTroop A, Troop B, and Troop I. When theymade the assignments and I got Troop F, Ialmost fainted.

I was stationed in Jefferson City, Zone1. I worked out of Jeff for six months.Ralph Eidson was my first sergeant. Hewas quite a man. Then, I went to Fulton.That was unheard of—to send somebodyback to their hometown in six months.

Paul Volkmer was the zone com-mander in Mexico at the time. I got ac-quainted with Paul when he was inJefferson City. He came to me and said, “Ineed someone to go to Fulton.” He askedif I wanted to go. I told him it was a slimchance I’d get to go up there. ColonelWaggoner knew I was from Fulton. Paultold me that wasn’t what he was asking. Iasked if the state would pay for the moveand he said yes. So, I said, “Load up thetruck!”

I rode with Bill Fishbeck for two or threeweeks, but they didn’t have the field train-ing like they do now. You learned by flyingby the seat of your pants. I would ride withhim two or three hours one day and thennot ride with him for a couple of days. Hewas a really good officer. I just kind of fol-lowed him; I observed what he was doing.He didn’t say, “You do this.” But, he was areally good trooper. We just buried Bill twoweeks ago (July 2005). He was 78.

I only had my immediately family in thearea. I had no cousins, aunts, or uncleshere. June just had her immediate family.So, I never had a problem enforcing thelaw living in my hometown. I treated ev-eryone the same. They taught us to treatthe person you had contact with as if itwas you.

In 1960, the weight station was in thiszone at Kingdom City. Weight InspectorHerbert Lee was one of the inspectors.

We [those assigned to the zone] were allfisherman or hunters. Herb had gone toHoneywell Lake one day when he wassupposed to be at work at 4 o’clock. Hisfishing buddy put a fishhook through histhumb. So, they had to go to a doctor toget that out. He wasn’t feeling well, soHerb didn’t come to work.

That day, I’d just pulled into the weightstation and had my car pointed back outto Highway 40. The zone office andweight station were combined— just adoorway between them. I opened the doorand walked into the scale house. Volkmerwas bent over in his chair looking in alower drawer of a file cabinet throughsome reports. I had just spoken to himwhen the scale house exploded. I thoughtthe world had just ended. Concrete blockshit me, one hit the back of Paul’s chair,one of them went through the window. IfPaul had sat up, it would have taken hishead off.

I got up and was looking at the front ofa big truck without a driver. The driver hadstopped his truck and gone to get some-thing to eat. He’d pulled the ICC valve.When the air leaked off it released thebrake, and the truck rolled down the hill.Truckers used the ICC valve as a parkingbreak. Trucks didn’t have the type ofbreaks they have now.

The truck was apparently coming downthe hill when I walked into the weight sta-tion. I just didn’t pay attention to it. Thefront wheels of the tractor jumped over theplatform the station sat on and penetratedthe whole east side of the building. Thefirst set of tires off the tractor came upover the lip, but, the second set didn’thave enough force, so didn’t go over. If ithad cleared, it would have knocked thebuilding down. If Herb had been working itwould have pinned him practically in two.Paul was lucky he wasn’t standing up, orhe could have been killed. I ended up withback injuries over that. I was in the hospi-tal in Columbia for several weeks. I still

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take therapy. But, I managed to work allthose years without having an operation.

Zone three consisted of six officers andthree counties. We had two in Montgom-ery, two in Callaway, and two in AudrainCounty. Volkmer was the zone sergeantover the zone. I know there is probably 10times as much traffic here now than therewas then, but they have more troopers inCallaway County now than we had in thewhole zone. During the week nights, after10 or 11 o’clock, there wasn’t any traffic ofwhich to speak.

I worked the road basically for 10years. I had three different lives on thePatrol (road, MVI, CVE). The road iswhatever comes up—wrecks, trucks, mur-ders, and so forth.

My first murder occurred in the city ofAuxvasse. It was summertime, some-where about 8:30. It was beginning to getdark. There were three or four guys—theywere all black. They were in this oldshanty across the railroad track, shootingcraps, playing cards, and drinking. Onetold the other one he was cheating. Hesaid, “I want my money.” The other guywouldn’t give it to him; said he didn’tcheat. The first guy told them he was go-ing home and getting his shotgun—theybetter not be there when he got back. Hehad to walk ¼ a mile to get home. Wasn’tlong, and he opened the door and said, “Itold you, you better not be here when I getback.” He shot the one man in the chest,laid the gun down on the table, andwalked out.

The chief of police of Auxvasse calledTroop F and told them about the shooting.I was in Kingdom City. When I came intotown, the marshal told me he knew whodid it. When he told me the name, I saidI’d just passed him sitting on the curb. So,I went back and arrested him. That wasmy first big case—kinda cut and dried.

On the [subject of] wrecks—you neverget used to it, you just accept it. I couldpretty well accept the older people who

were fatalities or seriously injured. Whatwas hard were the kids.”

Here, Rip pauses a moment, recallinga sad incident. It is obvious that timehasn’t eased the effect of working wrecksinvolving young children. Visibly affected,he continues his story, but moves on toanother subject.

“I’m just lucky that I didn’t shoot any-body and they didn’t shoot me. Alwayskinda wished in one way that I could havea surveillance camera that would showme how many guns were pointed at meover the years, or the times when if I’dsaid or done the wrong things I’d beenshot.

I worked several airplane crashes. Thatwas the most difficult. There was a familythat lived somewhere in the St. Louisarea. They’d been down to the Lake of theOzarks. They took off from a private stripdown there in the dark somewhere aroundmidnight. They didn’t show up, and hadn’tfiled a flight plan. We sent out a searchparty. All of the foliage was out and youcouldn’t see anything. About four or fivedays went by, and a farmer called and toldme some buzzards were flying aroundback behind his property. He didn’t haveany cattle there and wasn’t sure if it wasthe plane.

He rode around on his tractor before Igot there and when I arrived, he told mehe’d found the airplane. The man, hiswife, and three children, all of them werein the plane except the toddler. It was myconclusion from the wreckage and theway it went in, the father, mother, and twochildren were buckled in. This little girlwas apparently thrown out or the doorcame open and she either crawled out orfell out. She was in a little tree, hangingwhere a shoot [small branch] came fromthe trunk. It had strangled her.

I’ve worked train wrecks where amother and two or three kids were struckand carried ¼ mile down the track.Worked a train derailment in Sturgeon.

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That’s why I don’t have a sense of smell— from the chemicals on that train.”

June added, “They had to evacuatethe town, but the troopers had to stay.They were up there over 24 hours. Whenhe came home, he had just walked intothe house and the odor was so bad Imade him take his Patrol clothes off in thegarage.”

Rip experienced a variety of special de-tails over the years.

“I was there, in Kansas City, during thatriot. They assigned me and another officerto two Kansas City detectives. They wereassigned to the red light district. We moreor less rode around with them and werebackup for them. They made the stopsand questioned the hookers. We put onelittle, old gal in jail three times in onenight. Wasn’t really part of the riot, but ifsomething had happened on LafayetteStreet, we’d have been in the thick of it.We never did get down where they hadthe firebombs and shootings and weresetting buildings on fire.

During the Lincoln University riot, I wasthere. I was assigned to guard the powerplant for 12-hour shifts. I can’t tell youwhat exactly started it, but it was a racialthing. It was thought they’d try to blow upthe power plant.

I liked the State Fair. I had carnivalduty. That’s what Tom Pasley had, and Isat and watched him draw cartoonssometimes. I didn’t miss many of the statefairs. I also worked football detail. I en-joyed it. George Payne, Larry [Long] and Ihad the Jefferson City parking lot forawhile. We took care of these people fromJC. They always had fried chicken andpotato salad ... We’d go over and eat afterwe parked them.”

Rip was promoted to corporal June 1,1974.

“The next phase [after road duty] of mycareer was MVI. Bill Prenger and Ishared the troop. The captain split thetroop up. Bill had counties south of the

river and I had counties north of the river.We’d alternate when we were giving theMVI courses and exams. I’d take oneweek and Bill would take the other. I en-joyed it for a while ... It was seven or eightyears. I inspected those school buses. Wehad a good time, but when you see yellow... yellow ... yellow—I despised thosebuses. You’d holler out, ‘Wheelschocked—I’m going under the bus.’”

He was promoted to sergeant May1981.

“I was assigned to CVE in 1981. Iworked with the men ... had two trucksand the scale at Kingdom City. I super-vised seven or eight people in the field. Ienjoyed that. I very seldom worked “un-dercover” CVE myself, I’d have someonefrom another troop come in. I enjoyed themechanical part of the commercial vehicleenforcement.

When they were redoing the communi-cations area at Troop F, I told CaptainB.D. Smith I had a friend in Fulton (JackPalmer) who always wanted to do some-thing for the Patrol. Jack worked on aneedlepoint of the communications patchfor about a year. Capt. Smith said he’dtake it. It’s hanging on the wall there now.They had a little ceremony. It was a goodtribute to Jack.

Ret. Sgt. M.B. “Rip” Russell, 2001.

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You’ve heard the phrase, ‘Got a hold ofsomething you can’t let go of?’ Well, thathappened to me. I was at the Mexico Po-lice Department and had a 20-year-old tryto get my weapon. We were wrestling andhe put his hand on my chin and pulled myhead back roughly. He was on drugs andbooze. Then, the guy put his hand throughthe jail door window and cut his artery.There was blood everywhere and I wasslipping and sliding in it. I hollered forhelp—the chief of police and another guyhad a second man in another room inter-rogating him, and they came to help me.

As a result of that incident, my headwas injured. In 1994, I had to have brainsurgery to stop the pain in my head fromradiating down my ear and neck. It wassuccessful after two surgeries. Some daysare better than others.”

Rip retired September 1, 1988. Whenasked if he would do it all over again, hereplied, “Probably. The Patrol has beengood to us.” After retirement, Rip andJune worked a farm with 39 head of cattleand a horse. They later sold the farm. Ripsays they’ve worn out three motor homestraveling. He also served as Eastern Dis-trict commissioner of Callaway County fortwo terms after retiring from the Patrol.

“We have three children, two girls anda boy, and now we have seven grandchil-dren. We have one great-grandchild.”Their children now live in Columbia,Millersburg, and Mexico, Missouri. Ripand June celebrated 55 years of marriagein May 2005.

(This interview took place August2005.)

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Mr. Charles F. “Frank” Durham was apioneer. He was the second civilian chem-ist hired to work in the Patrol’s CrimeLaboratory where, prior to 1962, only uni-formed members performed laboratorytests. He and Mr. Afton L. Ware deter-mined procedures and protocols for a divi-sion that grew from a handful of uniformedmembers at General Headquarters to oneuniformed member and 70 civilian em-ployees working at GHQ and five satellitelaboratories. For 34 years, Frank helpedmold the Crime Lab into what it is today—a group of respected, gifted, and dedi-cated professionals.

Charles F. “Frank” Durham was bornon November 26, 1929, in Macon, MO.His parents, Walter and Clare Durham,had seven children, six of whom survivedto adulthood.

“I had one brother, Walter Jr., and fivesisters: Rosemary, Marjorie, Dorothy,Martha, Connie. Connie was younger thanme, but died when she was three yearsold. I am the youngest who survived. Myfather was an electrician. I lived a normal,small town life.”

Frank graduated from Macon HighSchool in 1947.

“I wasn’t very good in sports. I enjoyedthem, but I didn’t play any varsity sports.”

Frank attended Northeast MissouriState Teachers College in Kirksville, Mis-souri, where he earned a bachelor’s ofscience education. He attended theschool from September 1947 to May1951. In January 1952, he joined the U.S.Air Force.

“I went to pilot training in Georgia andTexas. I went to advance fighter pilot train-

CHARLES F. “FRANK” DURHAM

ing in Panama City, Florida, at Tyndall AirForce Base. Then, I was stationed atO’Hare Air Force Base in Chicago. O’Harewasn’t quite like it is now. They were start-ing to build what they have now when I leftthere.

I liked the Air Force. I enjoyed thefighter pilot training. I flew all over theUnited States and served temporary dutyin several places.”

Frank was honorably discharged fromthe service on August 31, 1956.

“When I got out of the Air Force, Itaught in Macon High School for sixyears—chemistry, physics, and biology. Idid graduate work during the summerbreaks when I was teaching. I had classesat Northeast Missouri State University andthe University of Missouri. If I had notgone to work with the Patrol, I would havereceived my master’s degree that sum-mer.”

On June 1, 1962, Frank became thesecond chemist hired in the Patrol’s CrimeLaboratory. Afton Ware was hired onemonth before him.

Mr. C. Frank Durham, 1962.

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“Initially, it was a higher salary. I knewnothing about laboratory work or theCrime Lab business. Apparently, RalphEidson and K.K. Johnson thought I couldlearn the job and they hired me. I heardabout the job from a couple of local offic-ers in Macon. I wrote a letter just for theheck of it. The day after I wrote it, one ofthe local troopers was at my door asking ifI could go down that night for an interview.

His wife was the school secretary andshe told me first. Another trooper’s wifesaw me in the grocery store and eggedme to write it, and I did. The school sec-retary called me one morning before I’dleft home and said, ‘Can you come in alittle early? Ed wants to talk to you.’ Edwas her husband. Anyway, I got in his pa-trol car and we talked about it. Mary,Scoop Usher’s wife, was the one whoegged my wife and I on in the grocerystore one day. She and Sgt. Ed Fergusonpushed me on.

We were in the Broadway buildingthen. We had one small room that was thechemistry area, and outside of that was

another area where we had a couple ofinstruments. Then, there was a large openarea where we had the records, the clerk,and Ralph Eidson, who was a sergeantthere, had his desk. Kenneth Miller hadhis firearms room next to our part of thelab. We had a photographer [a civilian]whose main job was to make photostats.There was no such thing as a Xerox then.Kenny and Ralph both did polygraph inthe lab at that time. We did polygrapheven out here [GHQ].

We didn’t have anyone in the lab itselfto do fingerprint work. They had to bring inFrank Forgey from the Identification Bu-reau. He would come in and do the finger-prints. We didn’t have a regular fingerprintemployee in the lab until we moved here[GHQ Annex] and they transferred JimRunkle up from Rolla. He was a latentprint man; he was very good. We had sev-eral photographers and eventually TomBuel was our photographer.

We were in the Broadway building untilOctober 1963. Then, we moved here. Wehad quite a bit more space than we’d had

Chemists AftonWare (back-ground) and C.Frank Durham(foreground)work in thePatrol’s CrimeLab in theBroadway Build-ing, 1962.

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before. We outgrew this space too, even-tually. Essentially, it was on-the-job train-ing. Afton and I visited the St. Louis CityLab and the St. Louis County Coroner’sLab. They gave us some of their proce-dures. And, we had books in the laboratorylibrary that helped us.

In the early years, I ran lots of blood al-cohol tests — used a chemical test then.Afton and I did trace evidence and chemi-cal work. Anything that wasn’t firearms,tool marks, or latent prints, we did it. Thisevolved over the years as we got morepeople and the instrumentation becameavailable. There were more processesavailable; more of a variety of tests thatcould be performed. Of course, one per-son can’t do everything. Afton and Icouldn’t do everything either. I don’t thinkwe sent any innocent people to jail, but Idon’t think many [criminals] got away, ei-ther.

They can do so much more now thanwe could do then. Their results—therewere times we could not say there wasdefinitely a match. Now, with DNA, theycan make positive matches. The instru-mentation is much more involved. Initially,a lot of the chemical procedures were verytedious and took a long time. It isn’t easynow, but it’s different.

There were a number of cases thatwere hard. I worked on some 15,000cases in my time. They ranged from bloodalcohols to homicide. Afton and I helpedthe Division of Health write the originalrules for the blood alcohol program. At thattime we had to go to court frequently toprove the breath test instruments. I thinktoday it’s accepted, but at that time itwasn’t. It was kind of a fight every time.

I taught some of the original classes inthe Breathalyzer program. That was one ofour big jobs for several years. We had tocorrelate blood samples with breath testssamples and tests, so we could say thebreath test instruments were accurate. I

think they are pretty well accepted nowa-days without much trouble. I also taughtcriminalistics at Northeastern MissouriState and Lincoln University (with Patrolapproval, but on my own time).

Originally, 15 hundredths (.15) was theintoxication level and that was prettymuch accepted then. Now, it’s .08, which Ithink is more accurate. So, it’s graduallygone down. The 15 hundredths was theprima fascia evidence. You have to drinkan awful lot to get to 15 hundredths.”

Frank was promoted through theyears. He became a Chemist II on De-cember 1, 1970; Chemist III on March 1,1972; and senior forensic chemist on Oc-tober 1, 1973.

“They use ‘criminalist’ now, which is agood title, a good term. I retired as acriminalist supervisor. The title criminalistis standard and is accepted all across thecountry.”

“The officers who preceded them in theLaboratory influenced Frank Durham andAfton Ware. Likewise, Frank and Aftonhad a powerful and lasting influence on allof the criminalists who have been hiredand trained since. They infused into eachnew person’s training their meticulous at-tention to scientific detail, caution in inter-preting results, and impartiality inreporting conclusions,” said Quality Assur-

Mr. C. Frank Durham, 1996

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ance Coordinator Tom Grant, who washired in 1979. “If any testing result wasquestioned in any way it was rejected andnot reported until all questions had beenresolved. Court testimony was alwayswithin the limitations of the testing thathad been performed.”

Tom continued by saying, “This conser-vative approach to conducting forensic ex-aminations produces quality results thatare accepted in the Missouri criminal jus-tice system. The reputation of the Patrol’sLaboratory staff is highly respected bytheir peers and by the agencies that sub-mit casework to the Missouri State High-way Patrol Crime Laboratory System. Theformer “new hires” are now the seniormembers of the Laboratory. They continueto agree with and to perpetuate this scien-tifically accepted approach to forensic sci-ence. The legacy of Frank Durham andAfton Ware lives on!”

Frank retired July 1, 1996.“My daughters live here in town,” said

Frank. “One works for the Department ofRevenue and the other works for a smalltrucking company. My son, Chris, is inISD. Chris has two stepchildren and twochildren.

Retirement has been great. My wifeand I have enjoyed several trips—acouple overseas, and a few winter trips toFlorida. We also enjoy going to Branson.Mostly though, we just hang out with ourdog, Ebony, and do whatever strikes ourfancy. I enjoy having breakfast on Tues-day mornings with the Wears Creek YachtClub.”

(This interview took place in early2006.)

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This interview with Senior Chief DriverExaminer Dale Shikles took place a fewmonths before his retirement. At the timeof the interview, Dale had been assistantdirector of the Driver Examination Divisionfor almost 10 years. He came prepared forthis interview, and shared several histori-cally important documents — specifically,Special Order No. 16-52. Dated June 12,1952, and signed by Colonel DavidHarrison. This order directed the begin-ning of the Patrol’s driver examination du-ties. The order included a list of thosemembers assigned to administer driverexaminations. Dale was soft-spoken,knowledgeable, and dedicated to drivereducation.

Dale P. Shikles experienced a typicalchildhood. Born to Paul and Ruby (Amos)Shikles of Enon, Missouri, Dale has manygood memories of working on the familyfarm and living in a close-knit community.Many of his neighbors were relatives.Dale came to work for the Patrol June1970, working in the Motor Vehicle Bu-reau, which was located in the JeffersonBuilding.

“I wasn’t sure what to expect, but ev-eryone was nice. There was a good groupof guys to work with. At that time, the MVBwas open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.We worked split shifts—17 days on and11 days off—seven, midnights; three, 4p.m. to midnight shifts; and seven, dayshifts), which I never got used to. At thattime, the registration files and drivingrecord files were not completely auto-mated. Troops sent us messages viateletype. A lot of the information troopers

DALE P. SHIKLES

needed had to be looked up manually andreport back to the troop via teletype.

In November 1971, Dale transferred toTroop F.

“That was during the time the Depart-ment of Revenue was automating all oftheir driving records and vehicle informa-tion. In the process of automating thefiles, five employees had to be reassignedto other divisions. Automation also elimi-nated the need for a midnight shift. Em-ployees worked days and evenings. Ofthe five employees reassigned, two wentto what is now the Information SystemsDivision, and three were given the oppor-tunity to be the first civilians on the deskat Troop F. I was assigned to Troop F.

The desk was quite a different experi-ence. At that time, no other troop had civil-ian desk personnel. It was a pilot programto see if civilians could work the desk. Iworked with many good people and en-joyed working the desk.

Driver Examiner Dale P. Shikles, 1981.

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Most calls were what you’d expect.Some, about road conditions, were amus-ing.

Of the three assigned to the desk, onecivilian resigned, one transferred to DriverExamination Division, and eventually, Itransferred back to MVB when an openingoccurred.

Dale would then apply for a driver ex-aminer position in April 1973.

“I wasn’t old enough to apply for DEuntil I turned 21. I always had an interestin it and was looking forward to working a

Driver Examiner Dale Shikles is picturedwith the first Commercial Driver’s LicenseExaminer Training Session in 1990. Thesession took place at the Safety Centerlocated at Central Missouri State Univer-sity in Warrensburg, MO. The five-daytraining addressed how to conduct roadtests under the new CDL program. Driverexaminers and driver examiner ser-geants from around the state attended.

Chief DE Fount Foushee, Troop A;Chief DE Burt Cunningham, Troop D;Chief DE Dale Shikles, Q/DE(standing); Chief Examiner MarieKlevorn, Troop C (standing), take partin training for the CDL pre-trip inspec-tion test.

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regular shift Monday through Friday, 8a.m. to 5 p.m.

I know DE was formed in 1952 and fivemembers were trained to give tests. In1955, civilian driver examiners began test-ing. Twenty-six civilian examiners reportedfor duty on July 26, 1955.

In 1973, all training occurred on thejob. I was assigned to Jefferson City, butgave tests in all 13 counties of Troop F.My supervisors were William F. Chapman,Lloyd C. Cordes, and Duaine Detwiler.They trained me in the administration oftesting.

The job of an examiner is alwayschanging due to the different types of ap-plicants who need the service. In 1973,we probably gave tests in eight or nineforeign languages. Today, we have testsin 11 languages.

When I first started testing, everyonehad to come in for both written and drivingtests. Drivers from out-of-state had to doso also. Now, they can surrender theirout-of-state license and get a new onewithout testing. I think it would have beena good thing to keep the written test re-quirement. It’s one of the few times a per-son will pick up a driver’s guide andreview the driving laws.

If the applicant had an operator’s li-cense and wanted a chauffeur’s license,they took the written and driving tests forchauffer. Today, that applicant would takeonly the written test for chauffer. Later on,there was a law passed requiring driversof school buses to take a separate writtenand skills tests.

I experienced a few minor trafficcrashes while I was administering tests.Usually, you can verbally intervene toavoid a traffic accident. When I firststarted, I was a little nervous about ridingwith drivers who may or may not be profi-cient. But, you get used to it.

The biggest change in the driver ex-amination program was when the com-mercial driver’s license testing began in

1990. The U.S. Congress passed thecommercial driver’s license (CDL) law in1986. This law required the states to li-cense commercial drivers under minimumfederal standards. All states had to be incompliance with the law by April 1, 1992.

I was transferred to General Headquar-ters in 1987. At that time, I was a driverexaminer supervisor. That year was whenthe Patrol began preparing for the CDLprogram. I was a supervisor assigned tothe division to assist in that endeavor.

Two representatives from each stateattended train-the-trainer program inAppleton, Wisconsin, to learn scoring pro-cedures for testing commercial drivers.Driver Examiner Bob McGraw, Troop C,and I went to this training. We came backand trained others. We didn’t train all ofthe examiners, only some of them. Wetrained all of the supervisors, which in-cluded sergeants who supervised DE.”

During this time of preparation, Dalewas promoted to chief driver examiner.There were only three chief driver examin-ers at that time. They were assigned toTroops A, C, and D, and supervised thedriver examiner supervisors.

“The CDL program started with a writ-ten test in January 1990. The driving skillsportion of the test began in July 1990. Wedidn’t have any sites available to adminis-ter the skills test initially, due to theamount of space needed for the commer-cial vehicle. It was required that drivers betested in a vehicle representative of theclass of license for which they applied. Ini-tially, drivers meeting certain criteria were“grand fathered”, which meant theyweren’t required to take the driving skillstest. However, every driver had to take thewritten test.

The CDL program is one of the bestchanges in the history of the driver testingprogram. It is a much more effective wayto ensure drivers have minimum drivingskills to operate large trucks and buses.”

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Dale possesses a com-mercial vehicle license. ThePatrol owns a 2002 T2000Kenworth truck, purchasedby a federal grant, and usedfor the purpose of auditingand training state CDL ex-aminers and third party ex-aminers. Currently, there areapproximately 48 third partytest sites. “Captain Billy R.Nelson and myself audit allthe state CDL sites.”

“After a six-month probationary periodat General Headquarters, I became achief driver examiner and continued work-ing on the CDL program. In 1987, theDriver Examination Division director wasLt. Robert J. “Bob” Hagen; the assistantdirector was Sergeant Joseph C. Bacon.Later, Sergeant Ralph W. Robinett trans-ferred into the division to assist in imple-

menting the CDL program. The divisionsecretary was LaFern Cockrell.”

In 1990, Dale was promoted to seniorchief driver examiner. He remained in thedivision, supervising CDL implementation.Once the Patrol’s CDL program was inplace, Dale supervised all aspects of theprogram. He was named assistant directorof the Driver Examination Division in1995, and continues in that capacity.

“One of the good changes I’ve seen inthe driver examination area is the additionof a chief examiner in each troop. It wasneeded. We’ve also upgraded many of thedriver examination offices and CDL sites

throughout the state. The upgrades haveimproved working conditions for examin-ers over the years.

That is to say the offices have becomea little nicer. Several of the locations noware leased by the state for the purpose oftesting drivers. Before, much of the spaceused for testing was donated to the Patrolby city and county entities. Many spaces

Driver Examiner DaleShikles administers a mo-torcycle skills test in thelate ‘70s.

Senior Chief Driver Examiner Dale Shikles portrays amotorcycle license applicant during driver examinertraining in October 2003.

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are still donated. We continue to give testsfrom free space in community buildings,courthouses, National Guard Armories,etc. We added new facilities for CDL test-ing in Jefferson City, Lee’s Summit,Sedalia, Macon, and St. Louis, and are inthe process of developing a new facility atStrafford, Missouri.

The addition of the graduated driver’slicense, effective January 1, 2001, was agood change in the program. I feel it’s astep in the right direction. However, I’d liketo see that law expanded to prohibit thenumber of teenage passengers in the ve-hicle. I would like to see the addition of arestriction that limits the number of teen-age passengers during the intermediatephase of the graduated license (ages 16-18).

Another very good change to the pro-gram was the addition of computerizedtesting. As the person is taking the writtentest on the computer, the computer recog-nizes when the person either passes orfails the test and stops the test. Thissaves time for the applicant and examin-ers.

Even before graduated licensing, wegave out a “parents as teachers guide” to

Senior Chief DE Dale P. Shikles, 2001.

help them teach their children how todrive. I personally passed my driving testin Eldon, Missouri. DE Lloyd Cordes ad-ministered my driver’s test. He later be-came my supervisor.”

Dale’s wife, Theresa (Thoenen), is fromFrankenstein, MO, in Osage County. Daleand Theresa are parents to Dale’s son,who lives in Lee’s Summit, Missouri, andTheresa’s four children: a son in Colum-bia, Missouri; a son in Tallahassee, FL; adaughter in Murphreesboro, Tennessee;and a daughter in Jefferson City. They en-joy four grandchildren, who live in Jeffer-son City, Indianapolis, and Tennessee.Dale’s older sister, DeeEllen Maher, livesin Eldon, Missouri. His nephew is Tpr. NeilR. Atkinson, Troop F. His younger brother,Dennis, died in 1997.

(This interview took place in June2005.)